


Eye of Ra

by Mattition



Category: The Magnus Archives (Podcast)
Genre: Ancient Egypt, Archivist Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Beholding Avatar Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Blood and Gore, Canon-Typical Violence, Cat Lover Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Established Relationship, Eye Trauma, Gen, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is Black, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is Qualified, Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist is Short, M/M, Mystery, Non-Linear Narrative, Not Britpicked, Original Elias Bouchard - Freeform, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Religious Fanaticism, Religious Imagery & Symbolism, Temporarily Abandoned/Discontinued, Trans Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, for like a chapter lol
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-25
Updated: 2020-12-18
Packaged: 2021-03-09 04:55:36
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 11
Words: 26,797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27188266
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Mattition/pseuds/Mattition
Summary: Jon’s cat paces into the room, yowling for attention. It is a ragged, snarling thing, more than half feral and missing a significant chunk of its right ear. Jon had brought it in from the streets, both of them soaked to the bone, Jon sporting scratch marks and a resplendent smile. There was no chance in hell that he would let the scrappy little animal go, and James had sighed and found a box for the thing to sleep in. Jon had kissed his cheek and dunked the wild animal into a bath, uncaring of its claws. He had his own, after all.His Lordship is purring in harmony with Jon.James has come to the rather unfortunate realization that ragged, snarling things are his favorite type of creature.OR: James Wright finds something interesting in the ruins of the library of Alexandria and gains a powerful partner in crime.Featuring my obsession with murder-husbands-power-couple and femme fatale Jon for some reason
Relationships: Elias Bouchard | Jonah Magnus/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist, Elias Bouchard/Jonathan "Jon" Sims | The Archivist
Comments: 186
Kudos: 173





	1. Earthbound, and Scatter-Brained

**Author's Note:**

> Here's...something! I tripped and fell into another fandom and I haven't actually listened to the whole podcast, but I got attached to jonelias so here I am.
> 
> I don't know how much of this I'll get through before my brain decides it's done with this fandom, and I continue to insist that I hate writing plot, but, again, here I am.  
> You might notice that I've decided to make this as Black as possible. I want historical dark academia featuring black folk, thanks very much, so here's something Kind of Like That. 
> 
> The Eye of Ra is the counterpart of the Eye of Horus & I live for symbolism. Be prepared for my half-researched and half-deconstructed mashups of Kemetic and Christian religion! (and I guess weird Fear Cult stuff)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A gala, some hot goss
> 
> Welcome to: Maat Lives For Outsider POV

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Gallant's [Talking to Myself](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=7whEJUOLyLw)

Tim has only been on the Magnus Institute staff for two months when the winter holidays come around. The Institute holds a holiday gala every year and invites all the investors and employees. For all that Tim is an extrovert, he doesn’t know many people well enough to hover near them during the party, which makes him a bit uncomfortable. He is chatting with Savanah from the library, when he catches a glimpse of the man across the ballroom. He had been surprised by how diverse the Institute was, when he had first arrived. Of course there were black and Asian faces on the website, but he knows better than to assume that means anything about the actual population of employees. Imagine his surprise to sit down to a meeting with Elias Bouchard himself and realize that he was non-white himself. He looked it enough, enough to make the white investors comfortable, but Tim had spied a family photo on a bookshelf in his office. He had been quite glad, really, to suddenly come to the realization, looking around the cafeteria, that he wasn’t surrounded by white people. It still surprises him, somehow, to see the gorgeous man hanging from Elias’ arm. He is darkskinned and his hair is done up in shoulder-length locs and tipped with gold. Tim watches as he pouts playfully with his conversation partner, a roguish looking white man who looms over both Elias and his date.

“Oh, thank god,” Savanah says suddenly, cutting herself off. Tim turns back to her quizzically. She had followed his line of sight and is staring at Elias and his date. “Elias is always in a much better mood when he’s in town,” she confides.

“Who is he?”

“That’s his boyfriend, J-something, I don’t remember. But apparently, he’s something of a legacy here. His dad worked down in the archives or something, he was really good friends with the last head of the institute, James Wright.”

“Oh.” J-something is batting at the other man in faux-annoyance, a happy little scowl marring his face. “Does he work here? I’ve never seen him before.”

“No, he’s over at Usher, that’s why Elias is such a bastard most of the year, his boyfriend’s across the pond, as it were.”

Tim makes a considering little noise, but before he can respond, Rosie the receptionist has popped out of the crowd and into their conversation.

Eyebrows raised playfully, she says, “You’re not _gossiping_ , are you, Savanah? We’ve got to keep up a good impression for poor Tim, here, you know.” Savanah laughs.

“Don’t worry about me,” Tim volunteers, faux naïve. “I just want to know where everyone stands,”

“Yeah, Rosie, you wouldn’t want him to be in the dark! Spill some of those secrets you’re keeping!” Savanah tugs on Rosie’s sleeve playfully, making her blush. Tim squints between them consideringly. Rosie flips her fringe out of her eyes and gestures them a bit closer so she can do something approximating a whisper. Tim gets the impression that she’s not really the type to speak quietly.

“You didn’t hear it from me, but Elias is trying to find some place to slot Jon into the staff.”

“I would love that,” Savanah says wryly, taking a big sip of her wine. Rosie nods in commiseration.

“February is always a shite time in the office cause Jon goes back to Washington after a month of spoiling Elias,” She says matter-of-factly. “If Elias can’t get him back to London, I’ll off myself.”

“We’ll be sad to see you go,” says Elias, from behind her. Rosie jolts in surprise and whirls to face him. He is wearing a wry smile as Rosie splutters an apology. He waves away her effusions. “Don’t worry, I’ll get him back where he belongs eventually,” Elias sighs, wistful, eyes unerringly finding his partner in the crowd. He is having a close conversation with a woman in a beautiful vintage-style gown. Her hair is done in finger waves, and one side looks like it’s been shaved into a…chessboard pattern? Tim approves, though he can’t tell if she’s some investor’s cool wife or just one of Jon & Elias’ personal friends.

“He’s archivist over at the Usher Foundation, isn’t he?” Savanah asks, and Elias reluctantly turns away.

“Technically, he’s supposed to just be consulting while he works on a doctorate, but from what I hear, their current archivist is rather useless.” His face twists in annoyance. “He’s of course saddled with all the work _on top of_ what research he must do for this dissertation. Nothing new under the sun, I suppose.” Savanah makes an understanding noise and Elias nods. Tim doesn’t really know much about Elias, but he recalls reading some drama on the forums about his relationship with James Wright, and how quite a bit of Wright’s academic work could really be attributed to Elias’ long hours of research.

“I really wanted to come over and say hello,” Elias says. “I’ve been so busy, I swear I’m usually more friendly than this, Tim,” He grins and gestures vaguely with this glass. “It’s about that time where I’ve got to wrangle these damn investors, you know.” Tim makes the appropriate noises and begins searching for a way to excuse himself from the conversation. He needs a bit of a breather, really, lest he be tempted by the open bar.

Tim spends almost ten minutes out on the terrace, suitably far from the smokers not to get fumed, just taking deep breaths and trying his damnedest not to think about the person he was this time last year, or of how he would have roped Danny into being his plus-one at a fancy event like this. He sighs and goes back inside, resolving to spend a couple more hours before he leaves.

Elias’ mysterious partner is standing off to the side in the hotel ballroom, gazing out the large windows at the glittering view of the Thames with his mouth set into a moue of mild displeasure. His suit jacket is a rich green velvet, and the cuffs on his locs glitter when he turns his head. Tim watches from afar as the man waylays a waiter and is summarily brought a glass of something amber. He’s glaring across the ballroom at Elias, who is speaking with some moneyed white man or another, that ever-present air of smugness upturning one corner of his handsome mouth. Tim wonders idly if they’ve had a row. He’s just about to go over and introduce himself when he sees Ms. Robinson, the scary archivist who lurks down in the basement, approaching Jon with purpose and decides against it.

…

He’s doing his best impression of a pot plant in the corner by the widows when _she_ approaches him. Elias loves to drag him to balls and parties and poker nights with the London/UK Avatars, leave him to fend for himself, and swoop in at the final moment when his prickly nature ends up offending the rather delicate sensibilities of beings who regularly commit murders. This event is much the same, in that respect, but of course, much different, for the majority of those in attendance are mundane. He’d rather talk to one of them, of course, if given the choice, but Elias likes to tease that he’s catnip for those touched by the Entities, which neither Jon nor the Pharaoh think is very funny at all. Not that their cat speaks human language. Still, the Archivist approaches him steadily, and has made her approach so clear that his escape would not only go noticed but would be the subject of much gossip. He resigns himself to an interrogation. He’s happy to finally be back in the UK after his sojourn to the Usher Foundation’s Archives, but he is rather anxious at the prospect of having to talk to this strange Archivist version of Gertrude Robinson. Last he remembers of her is the ambitious, cold woman who he had started training to be his replacement.

He had thought she would care for his Archive. He still remembers her leaning in close to his casket at the funeral and whispering, “it’ll be better this way.” He’s still angry, deep in his stomach.

She wears her disguise of kindly old lady well, doddering around the ballroom and smiling absently at the other MI employees who get roped into conversations with her. Jon, however, can See her sharp edges. She gives him something approximating a smile and offers him a frail hand, calloused, and slightly scarred from years of violence. He takes it and cannot stop himself from a short bow.

“Jonathan, is it?”

“Yes, I believe it is,” He offers with a shy smile. “Are you Gertrude Robinson? The Archivist?”

“I am.” She watches him with a mix of suspicion and contempt.

Elias has led him to believe that Gertrude can’t sense Avatars any more than the average person might, though she is adept at watching for the warning signs, and she can see Marks. He has privately decided to keep himself seeming as much like a piece of arm candy as he can until Elias deigns to tell him his super-secret evil plan. He should really know better than keeping secrets, honestly, but Jon supposes that old habits can be hard to break, especially when you continue to practice them.

“That’s an interesting bit of jewelry,” she compliments, referring to the little charm he’s got clamped around the loc that hangs from his temple. He smiles at her, nodding, eyes wide and innocent.

“It was a gift! It’s the Eye of Ra.” He touches it, and the little green gem in the iris glints when it swings.

“From your boyfriend?” Gertrude is getting bored with him.

“Yes, he has the eye of Horus somewhere, I think,” Jon says with a vapid little giggle. “We match!”

_You’re quite the actor tonight, Angel._ Elias’ voice invades his head and Jon has to suppress a genuine frown. Elias is always urging him to try harder to be humanlike, and the moment he finds his stride, the right bastard wants to disrupt his flow. _I rather think I’m a fan of this Jon. Might I see him in bed some night?_ This time Jon does frown as he meets eyes with Elias across the ballroom. Elias gives him that crooked smirk and toasts him with his champagne flute. Jon scowls and flushes in equal intensity and turns back to Gertrude, who is watching him with renewed interest. He can’t tell whether he prefers her boredom.

“Er, I must say, I’m glad to meet you, though, Ms. Robinson.”

“Oh? And why’s that?”

“Well, I thought, maybe if I made a good enough impression on you, you could convince Elias to let me take a look at your archives. I’ve been at the Usher Foundation for the last few years, you understand, and while the facility is beautiful, I’ve always wanted to see the Archives my father worked in.”

“Elias won’t take you downstairs?”

“No! He says I’d have a fit over the state of them, which is just silly, I—”

“A fit?” Her keen eye sharpens further as she examines him. He pouts a bit and glances around.

“I… well, I’ve got a bit of a, er, compulsion, a bit of OCD, I suppose.” He confides quietly. She nods, affecting sympathy. “Just, just can’t focus when there’s a mess, I don’t know what I’m afraid will happen!” He laughs. Her eyes narrow just a bit. He takes a breath. Stares at the floor. He wonders if she’ll attribute this little quirk as a symptom of the Eye, Web or Spiral. He carries the mark of a few entities, of course, he’ll need all 14 eventually, but hopefully not enough right now to be suspicious, especially if he’s dating Elias.

“…Yes. Well, perhaps Elias is in the right here, dear,” Gertrude rests a matronly hand on his arm. “I’m afraid I’m getting on in years and I can’t keep the archives as well-organized as I’d like.”

“Oh,” says Jon in a small voice. He searches the crowd again for his partner. Elias is engaged is what looks like an absolutely _rousing_ conversation with the head of HR, a man Jon knows he detests. Serves him right, honestly. Even if his actual reasons for barring Jon from the Institute’s archives have more to do with his particular inhuman nature, he’s still letting this woman run amok and keeping Jon from restoring order. It may not have been the archive where Jon Became, but it was the one he got attached to in the more recent centuries. The Institute’s archive belongs to his Heart and while he can subsist on militant rule of strange archives in distant countries, he’s just about done with being not only away from his archive, which has been a lost cause for centuries, but also away from his Heart’s archive. Jon bites his lip and swirls his scotch around in the glass. It’s gone warm now, ice melted, and if there’s anything that has rubbed off on him from all the time he’s known Elias, it’s having exacting and expensive taste. He frowns down at the glass in personal offence.

“I knew him, of course. Your father,” Gertrude says conversationally, apparently immune to the effects of awkward silences. Jon considers her interestedly. His memories never really dull, he hasn’t ever been that lucky, but he treats those first couple of decades after James had rescued him from his ruined library as sort of a fugue state to help keep the Jon he is now separate.

He’s the right hand of a god of knowing too much, which makes his fascination with others’ view of him if not reasonable, then at least understandable, which is why he says, “Did you? What was he like?”

“Hm. I suppose telling you he was a hardass bastard is a bit rude,” Gertrude considers with a sly smile. Jon laughs, a short surprised little bark. “But no, he had his moments, his tantrums, you know, but I think he was lonely. He was glad to be there, glad for us to be there. Don’t take this the wrong way, dear, but I rather think he was lonelier once he met your mum. Hmm.” She pauses, clearly thinking something through. Jon doesn’t know what’s made her so honest with him; he didn’t compel her. Maybe she’s had a few more than he’d thought. Her brow furrows. “ _What was your mother’s maiden name?_ ” She compels _him_ , though. He stiffens in surprise. He’s rather too far advanced for her compulsion to work on him, a furious butterfly smacking against him, but he does his best to act like he’s seen the compelled do in his response.

“L-Lukas? I think? Uncle James, er, James Wright, you know, he was the one who set all his affairs in order, made sure I grew up with my grandmother.” He huffs a strange breath. Gertrude’s hand on his arm twitches a bit before she removes it.

“You’re a Lukas, then.” She says it flatly, almost annoyed at him for not revealing his supposed affiliations. He quirks her a confused little smile.

“No? I don’t think I’ve ever met anyone from my mother’s family? Uncle James said—oh.” He cuts himself off and bites his lip.

“ _What did James Wright tell you about the Lukas family?_ ”

“He told me they were all criminals, k-killers,” Jon confesses haltingly. “That they didn’t approve much of my father. He t-told me what they did to my mother.”

“And _what_ did they do to your—?”

“Gertrude! I see you’ve met my dear Jon!” Elias is suddenly at his side, arm around his shoulders, looming protectively. Jon takes a sharp breath and turns his face into Elias’ chest, clutching his glass like it’s his only lifeline. Elias rubs his back soothingly and Jon has to tuck his face further away from Gertrude to hide his smile. “Are you quite alright, darling?” Elias asks, voice full of faux concern. Jon nods and breathes out a hitching sigh.

“Yes, I—yes.” Jon stutters. He can’t see Elias’ face, but he’s sure it’s none too kind with regards to the Archivist. Elias takes his chin in hand, turns Jon’s face so they can meet eyes. Waits. Gertrude watches on, placid but interested. “We were talking about my parents, I think I must have just gotten a bit emotional,” Jon excuses, crocodile tears glittering in his dark eyes. Elias’ face goes a little strange, and he places a kiss on Jon’s forehead. Jon knows it’s a reward for such a convincing performance.

“Why don’t you go freshen up a bit, hide in a dark corner like you do; it’s near enough time to leave, I daresay.” Elias offers him an out, and Jon smiles shakily and nods.

“Okay, um, maybe I will. It was nice talking to you, Ms. Robinson.” He gives her a vague wave and scuttles off, abandoning his glass on the nearest flat surface and b-lining towards the exit.

As he leaves, he hears Gertrude ask, pointedly loud enough for his ears, “What the hell is your plan with that boy, Elias?”

And Elias replies, a bit of a laugh in his voice, “I’m sure I don’t know what you mean.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am American, so please let me know if there's something that is out of place; I've tried my best, but you know how it is lol
> 
> You can find me on Twitter & Insta @mattitionjames!  
> Thanks for reading!!


	2. What are you afraid of? God is what you're made of

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> a meet-cute :)
> 
> Welcome to: Maat Loves Descriptions of Biblical Angels & Cosmic Horror Monsters Which Are Impossible to Behold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> THIS CHAPTER CONTAINS GORE!  
> skip to end notes for TWs & a summary if you'd rather not read.
> 
> Chapter title is from Ivy Sole's [Garden (ft. Dev*)](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4xnZ1dJa-Bs)

It is tragic, of course. He can’t remember this foolish guide’s name, but here he is, looking at the scraped out inside of his skull. The landing, such as it is, is filled with the unmistakable scent of wet blood. James is not surprised, he came here looking for a monster, and here, steadily leaking blood, is undeniable proof that there is something living here, in this long-ruined temple to his god.

And it is hungry.

He considers the corpse, which is mostly intact, save for the top of his head, which has been messily crushed and hollowed out. Surprisingly, the face is mostly unscathed, including the eyes, pale blue and staring sightlessly at the low ceiling of the passageway. James kneels and expertly removes them, placing them in a small jar he’d brought along on a whim. He wasn’t exactly sure what he’d find down here, but he’s increasingly glad he’s come. 

He brought two guides. Here is one, the stupid one, he thinks, as he carefully steps over the body. Perhaps the other is smarter, perhaps he will be able to watch the creature interact with it before the other guide loses his head, as it were. James holds back a chuckle at his own joke. He hasn’t been this hands-on in decades, so he’s really quite excited to see what these ruins have in store for him. He turns out the torch he’d been carrying and stuffs it into the requisite loop on his belt before he goes down the half-collapsed stairs. If his theory is correct, the creature may be a bit photosensitive, and the last thing he wants is to disturb its peace.

At the bottom of the stairs, hundreds of kilometers underground, is a grand cavern. The pillars holding the ceiling up are carved lovingly with hieroglyphs that he wishes he could read, and the walls are painted further with familiar creation myths of ancient Kemet. He did do his research before setting out on this exhibition. There are rows on rows of crumbling bookshelves, full of papers, scrolls and books, in much better repair than they ought to be for how long they’ve been languishing in such conditions. On the farthest wall, there is a painting of an Eye, eerily familiar and painstakingly rendered. This is a temple. This is an Archive. James cannot hold back a smile as he feels the Eye’s gaze sharpen.

There is a trail of bloody smears leading to a shape in the darkness. It is hunched, and near incomprehensible, and is making truly horrific crunching, wet noises. James is stepping carefully, of course, but his next footfall unfortunately lands in a puddle of blood. He grimaces and mourns this pair of shoes, but stays quiet as the monster’s form flickers and rustles. Glittering eyes open and close, barely visible through sheaves of heavy parchment that seem to hang from the creature’s back.

The creature turns.

James falls to his knees.

When he comes back to himself, the creature before him is marginally more comprehensible. All he can recall of what it was before is eyes and endless shifting light and paper, rusting in an invisible wind, eyes, shuffling of feathers and eyes and eyes and a never-ending gaze, hotter than any fire and eyes—. James gasps for breath. The creature is vaguely humanoid, and holds half a brain, pink with blood and crumbling apart as it picks the—christ—the corpus collosum away with something approaching distaste. It is sitting cross-legged in the gradually widening puddle of blood from the dead man behind it and watching him. Its wings are arched upwards, in what James’ mind reads as interest. They are great, fluttering things, seemingly composed as if the pages of a book, scrawled in some places with hieroglyphs here or Arabic there, smatterings of languages ancient and modern, scrolling out the stories it contains. It is finally content with the removal of the thick sheaf of white matter and brings the dripping brain up to its face and—eats it? It has no mouth, but it has teeth and a tongue, and it chews. Several of its eyes go half-lidded in satisfaction. James stares on in ecstatic horror and awe. His eyes are locked onto the pair set into its face where eyes traditionally go, these a glowing amber as if lit from within. They stare at each other as the creature slowly consumes the brain, taking bites which are almost dainty, as if it hadn’t ravenously devoured the first man’s brain and the other half of this one. It seems to have calmed considerably. Perhaps it really just was hungry. James won’t hold its actions against it, he’s done worse things while entirely in control of all of his faculties.

It licks its clawed hands idly after it finishes, and James thinks with a jolt of the jar with the eyes. He moves slowly, telegraphing his movements, as he reaches into his bag for the jar. As he pulls it out, he recalls that the jar began its life as a vessel for cocktail onions and thinks wryly that this use isn’t so far from that one. The creature is leant forward, wings fluttering a bit in curiosity. James unscrews the lid and carefully tips the eyes out onto his palm. He holds his hand out in offering.

“I wasn’t sure if you had meant to leave these,” he murmurs, hushed and reverent. The creature makes a—sound. It rattles around in his skull before registering as an excited sort of chatter that he has heard cats make in the face of prey. They are not far apart, and the creature must see no reason to raise itself to its full height to get to him. Instead it sort of—lopes towards him, movements simultaneously disjointed and graceful. It brings its face close to his palm. It is warm. Its tongue flickers out and touches one of the eyes. It makes another sound which eventually his mind reads as pleased, and eagerly scoops the eye into its mouth. 

James can hear the eye pop like a particularly thick-skinned grape in its mouth. It chews for a moment before plucking a small bit of plastic from its mouth and placing it back into James’ palm. James huffs a laugh. He hadn’t known the man had had a lens replacement. The creature retrieves the other eye and bites into it far more carefully. It makes a happy trill before turning towards the slowly cooling body of the second guide. It bends over his head, prodding curiously at the slack face, pressing careful fingers into the orbital sockets, seemingly wary of popping the eyes before it can get them into its mouth. It prods gently and even tries to push them out by putting pressure on the backside of his face, but ultimately it cannot seem to find a way to remove the eyes without damaging them with its clawed fingers. It turns to James. It makes an impatient sound. 

It takes a bit longer that he would like for his legs to hold him up, but James eventually makes it to his feet and joins the creature at the guide’s side. James does not remember this one’s name either. Maybe it started with an A? It is less than important, he decides, pulling out his pocketknife and kneeling beside the body. There is a significant amount of blood on his clothes by now, but he has other priorities. He carefully removes the right eye and offers it up to the creature, who lets out another pleased noise. It watches him remove the left eye with much interest.

It savors this pair of eyes. It licks its lips. Somehow. It looks at him consideringly, and James realizes, distantly, the peril he may be in. But the creature abandons him and—moves—towards the back of the chamber. James stares until it pauses, half-way there, and turns back to him. It wants him to follow. He stands on barely cooperating limbs and makes his way towards the creature. It makes a contented sound and continues towards the mural of the Eye. As he gets closer, James can see that it is carved into the wall and painted in reds and golds and blues, vibrant and glittering and obviously done with utmost care. The creature kneels before it, and James follows suit. They kneel side-by-side and sit in the silence for a long time.

The creature does not blink.

James basks in the Eye’s terrifying presence. 

The creature turns to him suddenly. Its stare intensifies. Its movements are frantic with excitement as it rifles through the apparent alter, a low table against the back wall which holds offerings to the Eye. It unearths a gorgeous bowl, shallow and anointed with jewels and gold. It is carved with staring eyes. The creature turns back to him, bowl cradled in one hand. It offers the bowl to him, and he takes it in worshipful hands. The creature holds an arm over the bowl, and slices neatly into its wrist with a claw. Black, inky blood spills from its vein into the bowl. James barely breathes. The creature’s wrist heals, and it takes the bowl from him. It holds the bowl, waiting patiently. James holds his wrist above the bowl, watching the creature. It makes an encouraging sound. He fumbles for his pocketknife, unwilling or unable to tear his eyes from the creature’s. Before he can slice himself open, the creature makes a warning noise, and he pauses. It carefully sits the bowl down between them, pushes his knife hand away, and presses the back of a claw to the underside of his wrist. James exhales and nods, situating his wrist over the bowl with care. The creature purrs and slices his wrist open.

Their blood mixes in the bowl, and James’ vision wobbles a bit. The creature licks his wound clean and offers him his wrist back. He wraps it in gauze in a sort of fugue state. The creature watches, half impatient and half interested. When he is finished, it lifts the bowl. 

It drinks.

All of its eyes flutter in extasy. James watches with bated breath. It drinks a little more than half, leaving several mouthfuls, before offering the bowl to him, almost shy. He reaches out as if to take it, but the creature seems to frown, despite having no face but for the eyes. He pauses. It offers him the bowl again. He leans forward. It makes a pleased noise and leans closer to place the rim of the bowl to his bottom lip.

It tips the bowl forward.

James drinks.

He hasn’t felt this close to his god since the Ritual, and he moans as he drinks. The creature copies the noise, purring lowly. When the bowl is empty, the creature swipes two fingers through the remaining blood and tenderly paints the symbol of the Eye on his forehead. It offers him the bowl, and he copies the gesture, careful not to disturb the eye already on its forehead. It trills out, something of a song, head tilted back as if directing praise directly to the Eye. James turns his head upwards as well. The creature’s song morphs slowly into something approximating human noise, and it suddenly grips James’ cheeks with human-like hands. He looks at it in surprise.

The creature before him is no less beautiful and no more comprehensible, for all that it has the visage of a human. It is a man, or at least male presenting. He’s never sure anymore with all these strange creatures; he’s seen people burned before because they’d assumed too much of the inhuman. It has one pair of eyes, liquid gold and glittering with pleasure and excitement. Its face is handsome and beautiful in equal measure, high cheekbones and full lips, flawless black skin. James thinks this is the type of man, for better or worse, that Jonah would have had a heart attack upon meeting. The bloody, staring visage of the Eye still is painted on its forehead. Its hair is braided tight to its scalp, and beads of gold and jet click together as it dips its head, looking down at its body. It is wearing cloth wrapped around its waist, folded intricately. It wears bracelets, two heavy cuffs of gold and a few woven bracelets on its left wrist. It has two horizontal scars on its chest. It is splattered with the blood of its victims.

It looks up a James with a wrinkle in its brow. He tentatively offers it a smile. It squints at him. It licks its lips. Parts them. He nods, clutching its wrists.

It grips his face more firmly and says, on a smile, “love of him has stolen me.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:  
> Eye-trauma, blood, wrist cutting (not in That context, but you know), brain stuff??  
> Summary: James Wright goes into an abandoned temple of the Eye, indirectly sacrifices 2 people to a starved Archivist-monster, feeds it some eyes, and does a religious ritual to give it a human shape.
> 
> Fun Fact: the thing Jon says at the end is supposedly a Kemetic love phrase! (in English bc the resource I found was unclear what was the gloss and what was the actual Kemetic) You love to see it! I live for linguistics, and I am firmly telling myself that I do NOT need to try to teach myself Ancient Kemetic. Stay tuned to see how strong my willpower is.
> 
> You can find me on Twitter & Insta @mattitionjames  
> Thanks for reading!!


	3. You can't understand it; eyes shut tight, never open up

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> gertrude takes some initiative
> 
> Welcome to: Nothing I Write Will Be Spared Themes of Subterfuge & Betrayal

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Lemon Demon's [You're at the Party](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=-Il7G4KUuHg)
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter, it's really just some plot & filler before I get to the Fun Stuff :)
> 
> See end notes for TWs!

Gertrude Robinson has no illusions that she is a good person. She has killed, and maimed, and ruined lives. But she is not a particularly terrible person, either. She’s kept herself as close to human as possible, while still using her position to her advantage. She is not sentimental.

Except.

Oh, except.

She tells herself that it is her hatred of Elias which incites such protective instinct in her, talking to Jon for the first time. But she knows, deep down, that she cares about the boy, if only as a favor to her mentor.

She remembers Sebi, clinging to his humanity, telling her one day over tea that his wife was going to give him a son. She’d never met the woman, barely remembered her name, and Sebi wasn’t ever the type to share needless details of his life. When she’s ever thought back about him, in rare piques of nostalgia, she’s always concluded that he must have been scared, on the run from whatever it was that made him leave Egypt in the first place. Whatever drove him into the arms of James Wright.

She hadn’t understood at first, how Sebi had come to be Archivist. When she joined the Magnus Institute, she was 23, just out of university with a nearly useless degree and the world still revolved around her. She was ready to _do something_ with her life, be a career woman, but of course, it was hard to find a job that people didn’t think a man could do better. Joining the archival team at the institute had been that steppingstone, she’d thought, that she’d use as proof that she was suited for more than writing out memos and scheduling meetings. She could barely see past the tip of her nose back then, but hindsight’s 20/20. She was surprised to see a black man in such a position, when she’d come, but any misguided notions she may have had were quickly disavowed when they’d all gotten to work. And did they ever work—she hadn’t been joking when she’d told Jon that he was a hardass. He called Angus' filing system the “machinations of a senile old man not suited to read even the Lies he so callously files alongside the Truths.” She sees now how utterly he had been in The Beholding’s clutches even back then. Was that what he was running from? He’d been teetering on the edge of Becoming for as long as she’d known him. She had once overheard a conversation between him and James where Sebi had asked if James “preferred the monster.”

Despite that, he was fastidiously kind. It seemed to go against his nature, somehow. He’d slipped up, of course, if he was particularly stressed or tired or even just caught off guard, Sebi was liable to conjure needles and knives from thin air to slice whoever was unlucky enough to be trapped in a conversation with him. He was clever, and dedicated, for all that he seemed to struggle with the weight of his title, and he never wavered, until those few months before his death.

Looking back on it, she can see where James’ influence had finally made him start to crack. They’d been entangled, in so many words, for some time before Sebi’s death, and James always had some machination or secret that Sebi would be turning over in his head. But James also doted on him. They kept it under wraps, of course, even though James cared little for his ex-wife, he was never the type to invite scandal, and being in love with not only a man, but a black immigrant would have destroyed his reputation, however stained it was already just by virtue of his position as Head of the Institute. He had been useless for nearly three years after Sebi’s death, so wrapped up in grief he was.

He was recovered enough, though, to turn his attentions to Sebi’s family. He hid Jon away from all of them in the archives who would have offered the boy support, especially seeing as his mother had died shortly thereafter under _mysterious circumstances_. She supposes she knows now that the Lukas family got rid of her for some reason. She’s never been sure what James had done with Jon, but she remembers him popping back up, bright-eyed thing, maybe fifteen, on a break from whatever academy he was entrenched in, and nearly skipping next to James as they headed across the lobby towards the newly-installed lift. James had kept a firm enough hand on him, but it hadn’t stopped the boy from sneaking down into the archives when he’d thought there was no one in. She hadn’t spoken to him, which she now regrets, but she recalls the way he’d gravitated towards the photo on the wall, a polaroid in a frame of Sebi, James, and the archival crew. They’d been so young in that picture, just a few months into it, and too stupidly sure in their intelligence to realize they’d walked straight into a trap and settled in as the cage doors closed. James had barred him from the archives shortly thereafter.

But then, of course, there was Elias. He’d not been at the institute for long at all before James’ health had started to decline, and Jon, wet behind the ears and playing at an adult, had insisted he get a proper assistant. Elias Bouchard was certainly a choice, handsome enough young man with quite a pedigree and a drug issue. Certainly charismatic, with how quickly and easily he managed to charm Jon, who seemed to split his time outside of classes between studying and mooning over Elias.

Wasn’t it so lucky that Elias had been there for him when James finally died?

She’d cracked his secret open, though. Elias Bouchard was James Wright was Richard Mendelssohn was, was, was all the way back to Jonah Magnus, body snatching prick. And now, he wanted poor, pretty little Jon Sims as a pawn. He’d been grooming the boy for it probably since Sebi’s death, heartless bastard. She had believed his grief, for all that he’s manipulative and evil, he’s the type to go all-in on love.

And isn’t it just beautiful? He’s got his sights onto Sebi’s son, a near perfect match for his father. Jonah has been trying to replace a lost love with a second-rate clone, and god if he hasn’t gotten what he’d wanted.

For all that she feels for Jon, she can tell his brain is all scrambled eggs. He carries the marks of five different entities, she can’t imagine what kind of terror he’s gone through, maybe even at Jonah’s hands.

Gertrude grimaces. She’d rather not think about the implications of that.

Maybe Jon’s a lost cause, but she owes it to his father to at least try to free him from Magnus’ clutches.

She goes down to her office in the tunnels to plan. She has nothing to lose doing this; she has no more assistants, and the rest of the employees will either be fine or won’t be around to complain. She’s been meaning to kill him for years. She just has an excuse now.

…

They’re facing off in his office when they hear the footsteps.

“Eli? You promised to take me to dinner,” calls Jon from the empty lobby area before Elias’ office. Elias grins at her, and she briefly turns her eyes to the Christian God her parents raised her on. Why does she deserve to live in a comedy of errors? “Don’t tell me you forgot about me aga—oh.” Jon stands in the doorway, staring at the scene in the office. Gertrude has a gun pointing unwaveringly at Jonah, and Jonah is returning the gesture. There is a tape recorder whirring on the desk. He’s all dressed up for a nice dinner, blouse all fluttering sleeves and nipped in waist that makes him look even smaller and delicate. He sways a bit before grabbing the doorframe.

“Darling, I’m sorry, I got caught up in—a meeting,” Jonah offers, shrugging a bit. Jon laughs a little, sounding far away.

“Yes, I’m sure things just got a bit heated,” He breathes. He swallows. “When did you change your mind on guns?”

“Ah, well,” Jonah looks delighted, damnable smirk wide as he cuts his eyes away from his partner. The tugging, anxious feeling in the back of Gertrude’s skull pulls frantically, and she realizes, stomach sinking, that this was the wrong day to ignore the Archivist’s influence. “You seem to find them quite efficient, inkblot.”

“Hmm,” considers Jon, voice lacking that ditzy, breathy quality she’s grown so used to. “Rather messy, I think, and your office is no place for all that blood.”

Gertrude takes this moment, at the end of her quest, to examine her biases. She’d assumed that Jon was a victim, which, maybe he was, but he’d been infected by Jonah’s plan before she’d ever met him, and he was stained with the Web’s influence the whole time she’d known him. She’d assumed he was of little threat because he seemed so scatter-brained. Idiot.

In between one blink and the next, Jon is standing in front of her. Or—well, _something_ Jon-like is standing there, teeth too-sharp-too-many-too-big, eyes glittering with unnatural light, several fluttering open almost coyly as they Watch. On its forehead, smeared in what seems like fresh blood, is a stylized symbol of an eye.

“Gertrude Robinson,” It says, in a voice crackling with static and shifting stone, fluttering paper and scratching pen. It sounds excited, friendly. “Won’t you tell me your story?”

She does.

It is agonizing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:  
> references to period (60s-80s) typical racism & homophobia, references to suspected grooming, mild body horror related to Jon being an eye monster, guns, implied character death
> 
> I'm trying so hard not to use chapter titles exclusively from Lemon Demon, but honestly,,,, be prepared to see more of Spirit Phone in this house. I'm also TRYING to actually do my readings and assignments instead of just writing this but,, again,,, I am weak.
> 
> You can find me on Twitter & Insta @mattitionjames  
> Thanks for reading!!


	4. you got the sharpest edges I've ever seen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> date night uwu
> 
> Welcome to: Maat Tries Their Damnedest to Worldbuild

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Gallant's [Sharpest Edges](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=OprPmcx0QXQ)
> 
> See end notes for TWs!

Jon is perched daintily on the arm of a chair by the fireplace. He has one of Jonah’s diaries in his hand. James recognizes it as one from his misspent youth just out of the Academy. He’ll never understand what fascinates his partner so much about his enamored ramblings about Mordechai Lukas and the other men in the scene. Jon hungers for new information every second of his life, ravenous in his consumption of knowledge, but somehow he’s willing to read and reread Jonah’s diaries. He likes to read James’ journals, too, the little voyeur. He especially cherishes James’ accounts of their first meeting, he pours over James’ awed, terrified scribblings, attempting against logic to describe, somehow, The Archivist’s more esoteric of forms. The first time he’d read it, he’d smiled and said, ‘you pen me such beautiful poems, Jonah.’ He had been sure to always mention his fear of Jon’s inhumanity when it was relevant thereafter.

He shuts the book and rounds James’ desk to put it back on the shelf behind him. He presses his cheek to James’ and steals a sip of his wine before sauntering back over to his favored chair.

The library and office in James’ home has, over the years, really become something of Jon’s domain. Back when he was only the Archivist, he’d gravitated to the place where the remains of his Archive lived, and when he was Sebi, he’d come from the Institute’s archive and make a B-line straight to the library. He hadn’t meant for Sebi to ‘die’ so young, of course, having established his next identity just two years before. And now he’s effectively barred from the Archives. Jonathan Sims, according to the rest of the world, is just under 5 years old, and certainly not suited for a career in archival work just yet. James is occupied with mourning his _dearest_ _friend_ , and Jon is bored, which is a dangerous state of being, for him. Last time Jon got bored, James had had to call in a favor from Peter to get a few politicians disappeared.

Jon’s cat paces into the room, yowling for attention. It is a ragged, snarling thing, more than half feral and missing a significant chunk of its right ear. Jon coos at it and flops backwards so he’s sprawled in the chair. His Lordship jumps into Jon’s lap and James has to turn away so Jon doesn’t see the besotted look on his face. James had jokingly called the cat Lord Snufflekins when Jon had brought it in from the streets, both of them soaked to the bone, Jon sporting scratch marks and a resplendent smile. There was really no chance in hell that he would let the scrappy little animal go, and James had sighed and found a box for the thing to sleep in. Jon had kissed his cheek and dunked the wild animal into a bath, uncaring of its claws. He had his own, after all.

His Lordship is purring in harmony with Jon.

James has come to the rather unfortunate realization that ragged, snarling things are his favorite type of creature.

“Shall we see Peter this weekend?” James asks, idly sketching out Jon’s profile in the margin of his journal. His margins haven’t been safe from Jon’s visage ever since they’d met.

“Just Peter?”

“Maybe Agnes. She’s found another plaything and is rather excited to show her off.”

“I miss Ray,” Jon sighs. He dangles his fingers in front of His Lordship, who bats playfully at them. James makes an acknowledging sound, not quite agreement. “He deserved what he got.”

When he looks back up from his journal, Jon has turned his face to the ceiling. The molding hides staring eyes, which seem to shudder happily at Jon’s attention. “The girl’s name is Perry, I think. She’s one of those money types; stocks, investments, you know.”

“I’ll thank you not to add any more Desolation-aligned to your army of lesbians, James Wright.”

“Vicious thing you are,” James sighs, smitten. Jon smiles at the ceiling.

…

The Glass Rocking Horse is a strange mix of dive bar and exclusive club. Its low ceilings have beautiful 19th century tiling, and the walls are a mix of classy wood paneling and clean white plaster. It has been around for centuries and has stayed in the hands of the same family for all those years. They’re a discreet sort, so the family line has gone on and the building hasn’t yet been burned down.

James has a not insignificant amount of fondness for Nessa, who took over for her father Piero after he died of cancer about five years back. The kids used to run around the bar after school, before the evening crowd got in, which used to be Jon’s favorite time for status meetings when he was still at the Institute. He talks to all humans the same way, which means that he treats children as if they were just miniature adults. And sometimes, he talks to adults like they are particularly overgrown children. Jon was the favorite of all of Piero’s children, but Nessa was special. She was eye-aligned and was resolute in her knowledge. She’d never been the kind to ask questions she didn’t know the answer to. She really was more like James in that way, which might have explained why she was Jon’s favorite.

Jon doesn’t get much chance to talk to a lot of people nowadays. London was Sebi’s stomping ground, and there’s only a select group who even know he survived the explosion. Their inner circle. Not trusted, but close enough enemies to be close friends.

James lets Jon wander back to their usual table, where Peter is waiting, mildly disappointed they’ve actually showed up. He detours over to the bar where Nessa is taking stock of her inventory. She shoots him a grin.

“Mr. W! It’s been a while,” She reaches under the bar for his favored wine and turns towards the top shelf for Jon’s disgusting scotch.

“We’ve been a bit busy, dear.” James tells her. She nods and hums understandingly, not that she knows or, in fact, cares to. He wonders if she’d ever even read the guidebook her great-grandfather had made to pass down. It contains so many secrets that really ought to be secured better, but James enjoys living on the edge a bit and Nessa has it reasonably well secured. She’s never seemed to take any of the fearmongering to heart, though. Her great-grandfather was a smart man, but he really did _fear_ the avatars who frequented his bar in a way that Nessa just refuses to. “Our Agnes is bringing round a real fire-starter from what I hear,”

“I’ll go find a couple more extinguishers; I think I’ve got some in the cellar,” Nessa sighs. “You want the bottles?”

“Yes, I rather think we’ll need them.” She laughs and slides them across the bar, along with the appropriate glassware. Smart lass, Nessa, never asked the wrong question in her life.

Jon has Peter half out of his shirt when James make it back to their table. He’s got Nessa’s frankly unreasonable first-aid kit out on the table and is aggressively disinfecting a rather nasty wound on Peter’s side.

“Finally got stabbed, did you?” James asks as he pours Jon a couple fingers of fine scotch. Jon shoots it down with barely a blink and James sighs. It really is going to be one of those nights. He pours himself a glass of wine and refills Jon’s glass as well.

“I’ll have you know that this is _not_ the first time I’ve been stabbed,” Peter protests, though his uppity countenance is somewhat mitigated by the theatrical wince he gives in reaction to Jon sticking him with a needle.

“That is _not_ the argument you think it is, dullard,” Jon admonishes, deft hands closing up the wound in three decisive stitches. Peter barely holds back a pained grunt when Jon prods around the wound to check for any undue bleeding. “I’m no medic, Shushu, you _must_ stop targeting people who are prone to violence!”

“Aww,” coos Peter, condescendingly. He takes Jon’s chin between finger and thumb. “You’re not worried about me, are you, inkblot?”

Jon bites him. Hard.

“You really ought to know better than to provoke him by now,” James says, watching Jon fume up at the bar as Peter clumsily tries to bandage his bleeding hand.

“Is it my fault that your boyfriend is feral?” Peter snipes back.

“My, this certainly is a scene,” Agnes says mildly, sauntering up to the table. At her side is a heavily muscled Asian woman with close-cropped hair and a scowl. She takes the two of them in with an air of annoyed interest and turns her attention back on Agnes. “This is Jude Perry. She’s new, so be nice.”

Little Agnes Montague really is a kind woman, James thinks to himself. She likes to make sure all the new additions to her little cult feel accepted into the community. It’s no wonder that Jon is so taken with her; his introduction to the Powers left something to be desired, and he’s the type to keep tallies of slights. Agnes and Perry take their seats as Peter miserably drips blood all over the table. Dramatic fucker.

Lucky for Nessa that walking through the front door is basically an instant Section-31, or she’d have to deal with some uncomfortable questions. This booth especially sees a lot of blood and burns.

Agnes seems content to sit quietly for the time being, so James does a quick scan of the humans who have found their way into the bar. Places like this seem to attract humans who are aligned with the powers or who have been touched by them. There’s a man in the corner whose cousin got taken by the Filth, and a young woman sitting at the bar who has a statement about Rayner’s silly little cult. Even as James recognizes this, Jon approaches her.

In the scant few decades between them meeting and now, Jon has been able to go from an existentially horrifying Creature of the Eye to a charmingly timid, delicate little man who looks not only harmless, but easily victimized. He plays the part perfectly when he’s angling for a snack, so of course the young woman isn’t intimidated by him. They have barely been speaking for two minutes before she’s spewing out her statement. Jon has a pleased expression on his face.

“If it makes you feel any better, Peter,” says James, cutting off his friend’s complaining, “I think Jon was just feeling a bit hungry. He’ll be in a better mood once he gets a little something to eat.”

“Spoiled brat, your boy,” says Peter, looking across the bar to where Jon is smiling serenely, and the young woman is continuing her story through sobs. Nessa is pouring up a tray for their table and _not looking_. “Finds a meal wherever he goes, barely has to work for it.”

“Leave it, will you? Some of us prefer snacks,” Agnes sighs, finally done with Peter’s bullshit. The Desolation and the Lonely feed into each other oftentimes, but Peter is not quite like any other Lukas. It had been rather surprising just how much Agnes was willing to tolerate from Peter, though she was raised by Lightless Flame psychopaths, so maybe it tracks that she has a high tolerance for stupidity.

Jon comes over with a tray of drinks, in an obviously better mood. James feels a fleeting flash of guilt for not noticing his partner’s previous attitude, but quickly gets over it in favor of delight at his smiling face. When he smiles wide enough, Jon has a dimple on his left cheek. He doles out drinks, returns Nessa her tray, and climbs bodily over James so he can squeeze into the booth between him and Peter. Peter huffs in faux-annoyance and slings an arm over Jon. He flicks James’ shoulder, and they trade smiles. For all that he’s an empty vessel for the Forsaken’s fog, Peter gets attached to people. Maybe this tendency helps him feed his God, but James doesn’t rightly care for the why, he rather appreciates the benefits. Peter is a handsome man, or he would be, if he didn’t look so empty and dead. Jon is certainly enamored enough with him.

Jude Perry is watching them with suspicion and contempt. Jon stares back at her.

“Don’t you have any shame?” She asks, finally. Jon grins, showing his terribly sharp eye teeth. “aren’t you worried at all about unwanted attention?”

Jon considers this. “I do not fear much, Jude Perry. I am older than this country. I have become the right hand of a god and eaten those lesser who would presume to affront me. There is no secret any man could possess that I could not See. There is no _child_ working in the metropolitan police who can hold me down. What have I to worry about?” Jon pauses for a moment, and the sound of rising static fades. He reaches forward to pat her on the hand. She flinches. “Besides, I love attention.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs (I know there seem like a lot but I'm just tryna be through ok):  
> mentions of established character "death", mentions of explosion(s), drinking & alcohol-use, VERY vague allusions to period-typical (80s) homophobia, mild descriptions of stab wound, stitches, blood mentions, statement-taking.
> 
> Jon calls Peter "Shushu" which is not technically a Kemetic pet name, it's a name name but I thought it would be fun if Jon had given certain people Kemetic names that he uses like endearments. Shushu means "braggart" according to my research lol. Keep ur eyes out for more implications of peter/jon/elias bc I am a weak man.  
> This whole chapter is just me indulging myself honestly (not that the entire fic ISN'T but,,,) I just want Jon to step on Jonah (in whatever form) and Jonah to say thank you king  
> Also watch me take a page from Jonny Sims' book and blatantly steal my friends' names and give them to random characters lol
> 
> You can find me on twitter & Insta @mattitionjames  
> Thanks for reading!!


	5. I know it's hard to get enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> bureaucracy
> 
> Welcome to: Maat Lives For a Properly Managed Business

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Leven Kali's [Get By](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=oPJ5rK0pWSI)
> 
> See end notes for TWs.

They get the memo that they’re being offered a transfer to the Archives at the same time. Sasha looks up from her inbox, confused, and meets eyes with Tim across the table. He scrunches up his face and she laughs. Maybe it won’t be too bad to be in a more close-knit office. The open space of Research has always been odd to her; she always feels someone’s eyes on her, which makes it pretty hard to fuck around on twitter. They go talk to Zariah about the sudden change. She looks a bit put out and tells them that it’s their choice to go down to the Archives, if they think the positions are better suited to them.

Sasha does, rather, and immediately starts researching the job itself. She decides to take the job and sends her tentative acceptance off to Elias. He emails back with a meeting request, which she accepts. 

In that next week, Tim also decides to take the job, and they both set to work wrapping up their projects, finishing the short-term ones, and cleaning up the long-term ones to pass on to someone else. Sasha has been doing a personal project which she’ll take down to the archives with her.

Her meeting is mid-morning on the Tuesday after she was offered the job. Elias’ office is on the top floor of the institute, and the little lobby before the executive offices is guarded by Rosie. She grins at Sasha when she gets off the elevator. 

“Hi, Sash! He’s expecting you, you can just go on in.” She gestures behind her at Elias’ office door, which is slightly ajar. 

“Thanks, Rosie,” Sasha says as she passes, smiling at the receptionist. 

She taps one knuckle on the door as she swings it open. Elias is already standing and comes around his desk to shake her hand. He has a pleasant little smile on and asks her if she’d rather him close the door, as they’d be discussing sensitive matters. She concedes, and he offers her a seat in one of the plush chairs before his desk, which she takes while he closes the door. For all that the office has that “tastefully cluttered” look, Elias seems to prefer a pretty minimalist desk set up. There is a sleek little organizer with a pen pot and tray with various slots for forms and papers tucked to one corner. The only other thing kept on his desk aside from the computer is a bifold picture frame. On the left side is a carefully matted polaroid which prominently features a much younger Elias, hair a riot of curls, gesturing grandly with one hand and clutching a short black man to his side with the other. The man is smiling wryly and seems to be making eye contact with the photographer. The right side contains the same subjects, several years older, in reversed positions. Elias is smirking at the camera person and the other man is excitedly talking to someone just out of frame. It’s a sweet little photo set, and Elias smiles when he notices her looking. 

“That’s my boyfriend, Jon,”

“You two are cute together,” She offers. He nods and taps the edge of the frame before pulling out a manila folder with her name scrawled on it in a slanted, careless hand. He pulls a few forms out and passes them across to her. They discuss the job, and what it entails, as well as benefits. Sasha is a bit surprised to see the paycheck that comes with the position, but she’s not particularly mad at it. 

“We’ve been a bit worried about Gertrude Robinson, the current Archivist,” Elias tells her, eventually. “She’s very hands-on, so sometimes she travels to pursue her research, but it’s been a while since we’ve heard from her. Hopefully, she’ll turn up soon, but until then, I’ve been putting off adding more archival assistants to the roster for too long.”

“Oh, okay, so there isn’t a Head Archivist in right now?”

“Not yet, I’ve been looking into it, but I won’t want to be too rash, you know. Hopefully, Gertrude will get back soon, and I can stop worrying myself about it.” Almost as if on cue, Elias’ desk phone rings. He wrinkles his nose and makes and apologetic face. “Terribly sorry, Sasha, let me take this quickly and we can get this all signed and send you on your way.” She nods genially and turns her attention to the contract. Elias answers the phone.

“Elias Bouchard.” He listens for a few moments, before his eyebrows furrow. “I’m quite sorry, I’m afraid I don’t follow, you didn’t say—yes. Alright, er, how may I assist your investigation?” He grabs a pen and pad, and scribbles down notes in elegant cursive. “I’ll have to look into that, of course, if you’ve a number or an email—” He is apparently cut off again, and his mouth twists in annoyance as he takes down a phone number. “ _thank you_ for your call, DS Boxer, I will be in contact. Have a lovely day.” He doesn’t slam the receiver down, but it is a close thing. He stares at the phone for a good thirty seconds, mouth set in a tight line. Under his breath, he says, “…right, okay,” and visibly pulls himself together before turning back to Sasha.

“Is everything alright?”

“Yes. Just a surprise.” Elias drums his fingers on the desktop briefly, before gritting his teeth and giving her a strained smile. “I can give you some time further to look over this, if you’d like.”

“N-no, I’ve looked at it; it all seems just fine to me,” Sasha protests. “If you’ve a pen, I’ll sign them right now.” Elias nods and passes her his nice fountain pen, instead of the biro she had been expecting. It is weighty, a shiny black thing with elegant gold bands just above and below the grip. The body is inlaid with lines of hieroglyphs. Sasha wonders what they mean as she begins signing the contract, careful not to let the pen drip. 

Elias is preoccupied for the rest of the meeting and he sends her away with an absent goodbye.

They get the email that Gertrude is dead a day later.

…

Sasha has just gotten to the bottom of the stairs with the box of stuff from her desk when she hears the yelling coming from the open door to archival storage. 

“E _lia_ s Bouchard, what the fuck is this?” That must be the new Head Archivist. Sasha sets her box down on the breakroom counter and heads towards storage to introduce herself. 

“Now, darling, I told you it was a little messy—” Elias sounds like he’s enjoying himself in a way that she _really_ doesn’t care to think about.

“A little! A little messy? I don’t know how you’re alive! If _this_ is what you call ‘a little messy,’ you’re going to be fucking surprised when I show you what a real mess looks like!”

“Is now really the time for idle threats—”

“You know for a damn fact that no threat I’ve ever made has been idle. Why—did she just fucking throw statements in the corner!?” There is a three-foot tall pile of file folders and loose paper in the space behind a shelf. Elias whistles and leans against the wall.

“Oh, I hadn’t seen that. Quite impressive really,”

Jon makes a wordless sound of rage and stomps his foot.

Every other time Sasha has seen Jon Sims, he has been a demure little thing, dangling off Elias’ elbow. When she and Tim had gotten the memo that they were to be moved to the archive, she’d done her research on just _who_ was taking over for Gertrude, and she’d been surprised and delighted to find a reddit thread about the Usher Foundation which discussed Jon. Apparently, he was something of a cryptid, and woe betide whoever damaged or misfiled his materials. Sasha couldn’t connect the Jon Sims who giggled and gossiped with Rosie and coyly flirted with Elias with the Jon Sims who terrorized the other employees at the Usher Foundation. 

Looking at his face now, Sasha can see where they’re coming from. 

“Hello!” She calls, knocking on a nearby shelf. The pair turn to look at her. For a moment, there is something unsettling about their eyes. Then Jon smiles stiffly and flushes a bit.

“Hello, you must be Sasha.” 

“That’s me; you must be Jon. Hi, Elias, how are you?” They exchange pleasantries for a few minutes before Jon seems to get antsy. He starts fiddling with a nearby archival box and biting his thumb nail. His nails are a sharp almond shape and bright red. Elias is asking about Zariah’s replacements for them in research, and, without looking, he reaches out and gently smacks Jon’s hand away from his face. 

Jon makes an annoyed little sound and turns to fully pull the box from the shelf. He cradles it against his body and flicks the top up. He hums in consideration and starts pulling sheaves of paper out of it. He throws them carelessly onto the shelf next to him. As he flips through the box, he says, “Christine just installed those sexy automated shelves at Usher.”

“Is that pointed statement supposed to be a question, Angel?”

“Thought you’d like to know how to make it up to me,” 

Elias sighs at his tone. “I’ll look into it.” Jon hums and closes the box. He gathers up the papers he’d removed from it and offers them to Sasha. 

“Would you take these with you on your way back to the offices? I think we’ll have to keep the historically significant ones around, but I’ll want them all digitized first so we can pare down the current collection of drivel.”

“Er, sure,” says Sasha, taking the pile of statements. She looks at them to try and divine just how they could be different from the ones Jon had left in the box, but there seems to be nothing significant about them at all. She shrugs and bids them goodbye. She’ll let it slide if Jon turns out to be as capable as she hopes.

When Sasha gets in on Monday, she’s shocked to see the place has been overhauled. Archival storage is half empty, and there are thousands of statements in boxes stacked on the far wall. The door to the Head Archivist’s office is ajar, but the office is dark, and Jon is nowhere to be seen. Sasha figures that if he did all this in one weekend, he deserves a bit of a lie-in. The assistants’ office is a long rectangular room with four desks. Each one is equipped with a computer and some sundry office supplies, but other than that, it’s up to them to decorate their space or not. The room itself is sparsely decorated already, featuring a few picture frames on the far wall with various Archival teams of the past. The long wall features a large bulletin board, mostly empty except for a fire evacuation plan and a sheet of printer paper with “Welcome!” and a little cat face scrawled on it in red sharpie. There’s a file cabinet for tapes shoved into one corner. 

It just looks like an office to her. Nothing as ominous as what her old coworkers from Artifact Assessment & Storage seem to think. She supposes that the AAS crew need to stay on their toes, though, so if they say there’s something with the Archives, she’ll be on her watch as well. 

She stakes her claim at the desk in the corner closest to the door and starts setting up as she waits for the others to trickle in. Tim comes in with am excited grin on. He has a crate with some fake plants in and puts a small fake cactus in a terra cotta pot on her desk. Tim’s desk up in research had been next to an east facing window, so he had tonnes of live plants decorating his workspace. He insisted it “clarified the vibes.” 

“I did a vibe check on Friday,” says Tim, predictably. He goes to the desk across from hers, situated in the corner opposite the door. “And I’m hoping that these fellas will help.” He hefts the crate onto the desk and starts unloading it.

“You might want to re-check; it looks like Jon completely overhauled the archive in one weekend.”

“Yeah! What the hell, right? I hope that guy sleeps!”

“When I came in on Friday, he was yelling at Elias for letting it get that bad,” Sasha tells him, laughing. He hangs up a puppies & kittens wall calendar. “I didn’t know he went that hard, honestly,”

“Oh, Jon’s a menace, I know he looks like Elias’ arm candy most of the time, but he’s fucking vicious.” 

“Do you know him well?” 

“I wouldn’t call us besties or anything, but we’ve kept in touch. We met at the holiday gala my first year here. We text sometimes, but he was in America before this, so time zones.”

“Yeah, I get that.” Sasha finishes unpacking her desk stuff and takes the box to the breakroom. She’s got a few mugs, her favorite tea, and a few sleeves of biscuits to put in the cabinet. She makes a mental note to go get a carton of oat milk for the fridge on her lunch break.

The guy from the library comes bustling in while she’s reorganizing the cabinets. It looks like Jon already stocked up on some different tea brands and brought a couple mugs, too. There is a pale blue one that just says, ‘I eat statements when James isn’t looking’ in the back of the cabinet, but it has a significant coating of dust, so she doesn’t think it’s his. Library guy is heavy-set and tall. He has a round, happy face and a cloud of bleach-blonde curls that are only kind of styled. He has gauged ears and big round glasses. He smiles at her.

“Hi! I’m Martin, my pronouns are he/him!”

She smiles back, instantly comforted by his presence. “I’m Sasha, she/her.” They shake hands and chat a bit as they head back into the assistant’s office. Tim greets him jovially, and the three of them joke and play around like they’ve been friends forever.

They’re just waiting for Jon to get in so they can start in on their new jobs, and this new chapter of their lives.

Tim is drinking his signature Disaster Recipe: a cup of black coffee with a hot chocolate packet dumped into it, which would be bad enough, were it not for The Mug. It is neon yellow, and reads, in comic sans, ‘Gender?? I barely KNOW ‘er!’ Sasha regrets buying it for him. When Sarah with an H in Research had to move out of London, Tim had brought The Mug from home to make sure Eliot, who replaced her, wasn’t a bigot. Sasha had figured that Elias was pretty on it for gay rights, considering the Institute was 1 in 2 for queers, but she enjoyed The Mug, so she never mentioned it to Tim. In this case, of course, she’s actually confused. It’s pretty obvious to her that Jon is gender nonconforming at the very least, not even mentioning his long-term boyfriend. Maybe Tim’s just decided to keep it here at the office. Regardless of the reason it’s here, she’s sort of excited to see how Jon, man of taste and culture, will respond to The Mug. She doesn’t have to wait long. Jon comes in with an old journal clutched in his hand, looking harried as he fumbles his way into his office. He shouts a greeting to them and snaps his office door closed.

It’s an effective conversation ender. They are silent. Jon’s door flies open.

“I forgot where I was!” Jon tells them. He looks flustered, mussed up, for all that his attire is professional. His locs are scraped into a bun at the back of his head, and his chunky sweater has come untucked from the front of his trousers. “I’m going to go back out, and then I’ll come in and I’ll be a normal person, I promise.” He leaves the office without waiting for a response. He’s gone for nearly five minutes, but when Jon re-enters, his sweater is artfully French tucked, his hair is pulled back in a half-up-half-down look, and he is carrying a tall travel mug. He does look much more put together.

“Hey, boss,” Tim crows. Jon lifts his mug, a sensible stainless-steel thing in black, except for the engraving which says, ‘don’t talk to me before i’ve had my genders.’ He cheers Tim solemnly.

“We’ve a lot of work to do, but I think that we’ll be able to get this place in working order with a bit of time.” Jon says. “I’ve already started—basically what we have are true statements, which I’ve left in the stacks, and untrue statements, which I’ve put into all of these boxes, here. For these, we’ll need to organize them all, note anything of historical significance, digitize them, and then we’ll file them by date and send them to off-site storage. Eventually, I’ll want to have them bound together, save space and all that, but that can wait until we’ve properly treated the true statements. 

“For those, we’ll organize them all properly, I’ve got a guide here, and then we’ll do our damnedest to get them digitized, and we’ll file them here in the stacks. Elias is requisitioning some automated shelves, which should give us some more space to grow.

“Obviously, people will come in to give live statements sometimes. If they have a true statement, they’ll usually come straight to me, but if you’re not sure, please bring them by my office before taking their statement to make sure. We can talk more about live statement protocol later this week; I’ll make up a guide. 

“I know this sounds like a lot of work, and you all probably were also working on other projects before this. I want to make it clear that this is a giant task—Gertrude had decades to get the archive in this state, so I figure it will take us some time to get everything up to snuff. I don’t want you all to fall off on your personal projects, either. I’ve still got a paper I’ve been working on, and I want to see you all publish while we’re here.

“I know it can feel like this is just an office job sometimes, but I’d like to emphasize that this is facility ought to be a monument to knowledge. You should be seeking more knowledge every second you’re here.” Jon takes a long swig of his coffee, then claps his hands.

“Let’s get started, shall we?”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:  
> death mention, cussing
> 
> hey, did you know that my actual job is in a library with an archive of special materials? did you know that I Care A Lot about the treatment of those and similar materials? I apparently did not know this, because I was fully expecting Jon to go ham and destroy the false statements, but I just kept thinking about how some of them would have to be from the 19th and 20th (and honestly 21st) centuries, and like what if they mentioned cool history stuff? Like, if you think abt the true statements, they mention stuff that some researchers would kill to know about in historical context. Surely SOME of the fake statements have that kind of content! Regardless, Jon is Capable here so he got an ILS degree on top of half a century of archival experience and knows how to treat a lady right!  
> On another note, Gertrude is died and maybe we'll get some folks looking into just HOW that could have happened. Who knows?? 
> 
> As always, socials @mattitionjames.  
> Thanks for reading & thanks for all the comments!! Idk if I would have lost interest without them, but y'all are certainly helping me stay excited about this!


	6. I am creation, both haunted and holy

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> introspection

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title if from half•alive's [creature](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=nHNPT_QPQ_U) HIGHLY RECOMMEND!!
> 
> end notes: TWs, rambling, etc

The thing about it is, he knows the hunger. He’d been Archivist for so little time before the collapse. He’d been suited for it, really, yearning for knowledge, always seeking out stories and secrets. He’d met the Woman of the Web when he was young, and she’d told him that she wasn’t ready for him yet, but she’d set him on track. He’d been apprenticing in the library less than a year later, and he stayed there until that fateful day when James had found him. 

He’d lost time rather quickly after the collapse; the Eye would have given him updates on each passing millisecond, if he’d asked, but he had decided that he’d rather not know just how long he’d been waiting. He’s not sure if he regrets that or not. On one hand, it had felt so short, a quick spot of torturous hunger and then his very own white savior. On the other hand, those centuries stretched seemingly unendingly, a faded state of ever-shifting pain caused by his very nature, his essence having been twisted into a ravenous, slavering beast and then denied satiation. He had been Become for mere moments before the others grew too afraid of him. He had only eaten a few men before they sought to end his reign. The outrage overshadowed his own fear. How many had the gods and their envoys struck down with no retaliation? He had Become. He was replete with the Ceaseless Watcher’s will and resplendent in Its endless gaze, and the supposed faithful who had Made him were _afraid_. It hurt him. But it was _delicious_. He Knew them, utterly and wholly; there was nowhere they could have hidden, in the end. No being that breathes or thinks or feels could be spared his cruel attention.

He recalls the pangs of guilt and fear from before he Became, but they were muffled, wrapped tight in slick, sticking silk by the Woman of the Web. He’d scratched frantically at those webs when he’d finally noticed them, wanting to feel something approaching human, desperate to honor his Elders, afraid to lose himself, the very first thing they’d given him. All it had done was make his hands sticky and poisonous. In his more maudlin periods, trapped in his slowly-rotting archive, he would consider the irony of fearing the loss of who he was Before, when it was their attempts to preserve that bright-eyed boy that had destroyed him in the end. If he had let the Woman of the Web’s silk shield him from his fear of Becoming, would he have done so quietly? Would he have gotten to keep his archive safe? How many would he have consumed in his unending hunger? What would have happened to that man, that boy he had been, so eager for knowledge, for more, if he’d Become without the fear?

He Knows what his name had been. Anok Sabé, I Am Wise. What gift his mother had given him. Wisdom. A curse, a blessing, a prophecy. Had his mother been a mouthpiece for the gods? Had she known? He dared not Ask. This, he did not want to Know. He doubts he ever will. But she was dead. Had been long before he was, his father, too, both gone to Duat for judgement before either of them had done more than bring him into the world. Sometimes he worried that even _that_ act had made their hearts too heavy. If he was truly so horrible, would his very existence bar his parents from the Field of Reeds? 

But those feelings of pain and sadness for his past life faded, too, in the haze of hunger. 

There were few bright spots of suffering that lit up the aching miasma of his thirst for knowledge. Few unfortunate souls wandered into his lair. Eventually, he grew hungry enough that he could take it all. He didn’t need to just snack on the fear. He could take the fear, and the joy and the sadness; he could have every thought and story and word. And whatever unlucky flies made their way into his web-sticky claws gave their minds as willingly as they could. And he could _taste_ how it hurt them, their poor, all-too-human minds clutched the knowledge as hard as they could, afraid, in that animal way, to grant him what he deserved. He had to be sure that those fearful, selfish minds were not hoarding knowledge, even if the body was willing. So he grew teeth which could crunch and crush, just to be sure that there were no morsels of Knowledge denied him. His wings sprouted pages, endless, ephemeral things which detailed the multitudes contained in him, spilling from him, fluttering with his feathers and hemorrhaging ink and blood. 

The brightest spot of all, of course, was the Eye granting him his body back. The envoy the Eye sent him was all glittering green light and knowledge kept close and ill will. A smiling, handsome devil with a pale face like Death’s horse in the Christian book. The envoy wore reverence with his terror, and fed him Sight. The envoy was his, a gift granted from his god in reward for his suffering. He had Learned, and his god was thankful to Know, and here was his prize, his own envoy. And his envoy, his Jonah, wicked, evil thing, with his ever-swerving eyes, taking other men’s bodies for his own, making sure they would fit him right. He held no small amount of envy for his Heart. For all his god granted him, for all he could exert his will over his body, he could not set it to rights through magical means. He still holds the envy, a small portion of it, but no resentment. His mother gave him this body, and he has little else to remember her by.

His Jonah had delivered him from the ruins of his archive and brought him to a strange land of flashing lights and furious machines. After those years of silence, peace, he was less than grateful for the introduction. Still, Jonah had brought his archive, and they had ensconced themselves in Jonah’s home, and he Learned more.

He had long forgotten his humanity. Even now, he isn’t sure if Sabé was like Jon in many ways. The same man held both of those names, and the title, The Archivist, though others borrowed it, and other names, still. Names are sacred things, with so much and so little meaning. He’d been Sebi, and then he’d been dead, and he’d decided that he ought to have a new name. And he’d thought of the other men who worked in his first archive, and his childhood playmates, and he read a letter from one of Jonah’s paramours and decided that the white man with such admiration for his Jonah had no use for the name, a series of scratches on a stone somewhere, and that he could take it for himself. He could take that man’s name; Jonah was James was Jonah and had taken more from James than just a name. Jonah had taken a family and a face and a life. Surely _he_ could take a short collection of English letters from a dead man. And he did.

He became Jon and he made his way out of dreary England with a vengeance. If he was to be barred from his Heart’s archive, the least he could do was ensure the Eye’s power was not waning any other place. If the homeland hadn’t brought his god back to the surface, he would have to build the temple, but they already had, and he had basked in the repository of pure, life-giving Knowledge, and eventually left for China with a vigor he had not known he’d lost. He loved his Heart, though Jonah was much heavier than Maat’s feather, and would leave him adrift in Duat. His Heart loved him; they were impossible to separate, intertwined as one soul as they were, but he had been glad for the respite. He was glad to be the leader and not the led. He was glad to be a wolf and not a chained dog. It was best for both of them. Jonah needed to remember what it was like to be alone. He had gotten too comfortable.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:  
> references to Becoming-related & web-related horror. pretty mild :)
> 
> SO this chapter has the barest taste of plot, and vague illusions to Jon's Becoming, which, like... I do not know how he Became. He refuses to tell me. But since he is stubborn I am forced, tragically, to do a lot of research into Kemetic mythology. Not like I've done too much already... not like I stole my name from Kemetic Mythology... heh that'd be wild. (That'd be embarrassing if you'd have to name drop the goddess whose name you stole in your fanfiction...)  
> Anyway, something that's discussed, but not explicit in the chapter is the Kemetic views on the heart! Basically, the heart IS the soul, which is why all mummies' organs are removed except for the heart. You need it when you get to Duat, the underworld, where you weigh it against Maat's feather. If your heart is equal or lighter than the feather, you get to go to Aaru, the field of reeds, heaven, but if it's heavier, your heart gets eaten by Ammit (keep an eye out) and you stay in Duat forever as punishment. Obviously, there's more to it, but that's the long and short.  
> My favorite thing about Jonah calling himself the heart of the institute is Jon deciding that Jonah is HIS heart, and all the good and bad that goes along with it. I feel like most iterations of Jon have so much guilt, and this one is no different. He knows (Knows?) all the terrible stuff he's done is terrible, and even if he's living the high life w Jonah, he still believes he deserves Ammit's punishment.
> 
> Sorry for the short chapter! I guess I've just been in a Mood lately haha. I feel like every time I write about Avatars and Becomings I go into a fugue state and then at the end I have some really introspective shit like Maat are you okay buddy?
> 
> Coming up: I destroy S1 canon for personal gain & introduce some Challenging Concepts :)
> 
> as always, I am on socials @mattitionjames  
> Thanks for reading & commenting! I legitimately get so excited reading y'alls comments my heart is full! <3


	7. Thought I was high, but I’d barely risen

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Elias gets a makeover >:)
> 
> Welcome to: Maat Regrets Nothing and Everything

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> See end notes for TWs!
> 
> Chapter title is from Teddy Hyde's [Vanilla Curls](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=9kx-En3zimg)

Mr. Wright has been mentoring him for about six months before he meets Jon. He calls Elias into the office and when he scrambles in, there _he_ is, perched on the corner of Mr. Wright’s heavy wood desk. It feels like a dream, somehow, looking at him. He’s dressed in a nerdy sweater vest and his dark hair is pulled into a pouf on the crown of his head. But he’s so gorgeous, Eli forgets himself as soon as he comes into the room, trips on the plush rug, and face plants directly in front of his boss. He groans and turns over, looks up at Mr. Wright, who looks pained with secondhand embarrassment.

“Elias. Are you quite well?”

“Sorry, I was unprepared to meet an angel today,” Eli says, gesturing vaguely towards Jon as he scrambles to his feet. Jon throws his head on a laugh, clutching the desk so he doesn’t fall over. Elias pauses. _Fuck_. Why did he just say that to his boss about the one person that he thinks of as a son?

“I’m Jon, it’s lovely to meet you,” he says it while holding giggles back. Mr. Wright is wearing a put-upon look. Jon offers Elias a hand, palm down. Elias bows theatrically and kisses the back of his hand. Jon bites his lip and ducks his head a bit.

“Nice to meet you, terribly sorry about my…everything,”

“I’ll let it slide this one time,” 

“Alright!” Mr. Wright exclaims, making both of them jerk their heads up. Jon has a mischievous look on his face, eyes bright and blush high on his cheeks. 

“I think he’s a pretty good choice, Uncle James.” 

-

“Would you ever let me take you out?” Elias whispers across the table to Jon, who scowls at him for interrupting. They’re in the library after hours, and Elias is working on the paper Mr. Wright has been working on. Jon’s studying for his midterms, all his books and papers scattered around in something of a nest. There are only a few lamps on in the room, the few on their shared table, and the one on the circulation desk. The overhead lights are off, at Jon’s insistence. He had wanted to be able to see the way the light of the setting sun came through the ornate stained-glass window on the west wall. Elias, of course, had been watching something more radiant than the sun, which he’d mentioned to his companion. Jon had laughed in his face. They’d let it get dark, though, the longer they’d stayed, Jon typing away at his paper. 

Jon turns his scowl back to his computer and doesn’t answer. Elias feels a pang in his chest. He fancies Jon, and he’d thought that Jon liked him back, for all their age difference, they’ve got some sheared life experiences. Jon looks up suddenly.

“You just asked me on a date!”

“Tired to, yeah,” 

Jon laughs incredulously. “I want to go on a date with you!”

“Er,” replies Elias, intelligently. Jon snaps his laptop closed and turns in his chair to face him fully. He has that manic, excited gleam to his eyes that he usually only gets around scary stories. “I want to go on a date with you, too,” Elias stutters out. “Sh-Shall we do this weekend?”

“Okay!” Jon flutters his hands in excitement and starts gathering up his supplies. “I—I need to go right now!” 

“Are you alright?”

“I’m just excited and you can’t see that!” In a ridiculously endearing gesture, Jon presses his hands over his cheeks. “I’m just going to go make sure Uncle James hasn’t, er, fallen down the stairs or something, and you’ll go home and sleep and then I’ll see you on Thursday, and I’ll be completely normal and we’ll go on a date this weekend!”

Elias stares at him, mouth slack in a sort of enamored confusion. He nods and Jon starts shoving books into his backpack. 

“Great! I’ll see you then!” He quickly rounds the table, arms full of papers and books, his backpack slung haphazardly over his shoulder. He smacks a kiss to Elias cheek and all but runs from the library. 

Elias sits there in the darkened library for nearly five minutes, trying to parse that interaction and trying to convince himself that he’s not smitten already. 

-

Elias doesn’t spend a lot of time with his friends from uni. He knows some of them are in London, but he’s so busy with James’ projects that he doesn’t have much free time. And what little he does have, he wants to spend with Jon. Jon is a light in his life when he didn’t even know it was dark. Jon is snippy and sarcastic and made exclusively of sharp edges and pointy bits, but god if Elias doesn’t love him. Once Elias is allowed to get past his walls and traps, Jon is a soft thing, a bit sheltered and naïve, hiding from the world behind a mask of teeth and eyeliner and loud music. 

Elias mentions off-hand that he doesn’t have much of a social life, and Jon makes it a one-man crusade to give him one. Jon drags him to strange bars with niche themes and random parties he’s entirely sure _how_ Jon got invited to or if he did at all. He introduces Elias to all his friends and asks him shyly if he’d come watch his band play. Jon has a great singing voice and an active imagination. It’s not really Elias’ scene, but he resolves himself to attend every gig if he can see that exhilarated smile on Jon’s face. 

-

“You don’t have to try it,” Elias murmurs one evening, fingers focused on rolling a joint. Though they rarely have free time which they don’t spend locked up in the Institute’s library or doing some other academic pursuit, they’ve done this before; Elias will smoke a quick joint and Jon will sit with him and write. Jon never partakes, but he’d asked last time they’d done this. “If you’ve changed your mind,”

“I want to know what it’s like,” says Jon, eyes already half-lidded, though he is watching intently. Jon watches everything intently, of course, it’s one of the first things Elias had noticed about him. Jon’s guitar case is still propped against the back of the sofa and his lyric book is still in his messenger bag. He’s serious about this, so Elias shoves the idea that he’s being a bad influence to the back of his mind and gives his boyfriend a little smile before lighting up. Jon scoots into his space, eyes dark amber in the dim light. Elias beckons him even closer, which Jon takes as an invitation to situate himself in his lap. Jon is like a street cat in that aspect: he’s all claws and hissing until you bring him inside and feed him up, then all he wants to do is climb in your lap and cuddle. Elias can’t resist stealing a quick little kiss.

“D’you know how to take a hit?”

“Is it like smoking cigarettes?”

“More or less,”

Elias takes a quick drag to make sure it’s lit properly and offers Jon the joint. Jon takes it in careful fingers and takes his own hit, holds it for a moment, before exhaling with a short cough. He makes an annoyed little face. It’s adorable. 

“When I was researching this—”

“You did research?”

“I read about this thing called shotgunning.” Jon is pouting hard and Elias just _has_ to kiss him again. “I think you should do that for me,” he announces it in that haughty way he has when he’s being petulant, and Elias is so god damn enamored. He cups Jon’s face in his free hand.

“All you gotta do is breathe in, okay? Nice and easy,” 

“Okay,” Elias takes a drag and holds it, slots their mouths together. Jon’s eyes are low, but open, and he inhales the lungful that Elias gives him with a pleased little flutter of his lashes. He hums low in his chest.

They trade smoky kisses for a while, before Elias stubs out the half-finished joint in the ashtray, and they get serious about snogging. Jon is suppressing little giggles, and, when Elias asks him what’s so funny, he calls him ‘Sokkwi’ and kisses him harder. Jon doesn’t usually like sex, so Elias doesn’t let him take things too far while they’re high, and eventually they settle into a conversation about mythology. It’s a shiny memory that Elias looks at when he’s stressed. 

-

Jon speaks fluent French, much to his parents’ pleasure. He had been uncharacteristically apprehensive to meet them, but he’d finally broke down after a surprising endorsement of the idea from Mr. Wright. Elias had gotten the impression that Mr. Wright only _just_ tolerated their relationship. If his and Jon’s relationship was brought up, Mr. Wright always wore that smug, knowing little smile he had with some of the colleagues he didn’t like. Whenever he smiled like that, the person it was directed at would be gone within the year. Elias tried not to think about the implications of that. But Mr. Wright had overheard them one day arguing about meeting his family, and had pressed his hands on Jon’s shoulders and said,

“Why not meet the lad’s family, Jonathan? From what I hear, you’ll want to know if you can get along with them.” Jon had scowled, but a day later had shyly told Elias that he’d love to meet his parents but was worried that they wouldn’t like him. 

They like him, of course. What self-respecting parents wouldn’t like the pretty, educated partner their son brought home? His mother’s parents were from Senegal, so she’s doubly excited to see him bring home someone black for once. He’d dated a string of white girls in sixth form and uni, but in his defense, he hadn’t been spoiled for choice. Christ Church was a bit more multi-cultural, but he still had to work to meet other people of color until he stumbled into the Institute. It’s like Mr. Wright exclusively hires the outcasts of academia. His parents were raised mostly-French, they care little for the gender of his partners, as long as they’re respectable. Of course they’re taken with Jon, who, despite how his rougher edges chafe in English, absolutely charms in French, which just about sends Elias’ parents to the moon. His little sister, Noémie, comes down from Cambridge to surprise him, and she and Jon spend a good hour or two trading embarrassing things about him back and forth. His mum finally stops lamenting the length of his haircut to notice this, and cosigns Jon and Noémie to search the attic for the old pictures & Elias’ drawings and assignments from primary school. Jon is grinning wide enough to show his sharp eye teeth and gives him a sweet little kiss on the cheek before he follows the girls upstairs. 

When they’ve left the room, his father cuffs him on the chin playfully and tells him to marry Jon. 

Jon falls asleep in the car on the way back to London and Elias thinks that he just might.

\--

Mr. Wright has a fainting spell one day in the office. Jon has been really worried about his health lately, so Elias insists on driving him home. Mr. Wright lives in a handsome manor house just outside the city proper, to which Elias has been a few times. The security guard recognizes him and waves him through the gate with a respectful nod. Jon’s beat-up little mini is sat in the front drive when Elias pulls in, and he feels immense relief that Jon’s on break from school. Jon throws the front door open before he can even help Mr. Wright out of the car and runs across the front lawn. 

“Eli? What’s going on? Uncle James?” Jon’s voice is all barely suppressed panic, and his flour-covered hands flutter anxiously as Elias helps Mr. Wright from the vehicle. Mr. Wright flaps a placating hand at Jon.

“I’m fine, dear boy, just took a spill,”

“A spill!” Jon is going shrill in panic as he trots along beside them; Elias near-enough carries Mr. Wright up the lawn to the front door. 

“He fainted a couple hours ago; we only just convinced him to leave work.” Elias reassures. “Maybe take him to the doctor tomorrow or tonight?”

“Yes, I’ll call his physician right now, can you set him up in his room?” Jon scrambles towards the kitchen, where Elias can hear big band music playing on Jon’s phone. Under Mr. Wright’s direction, he helps the old man down a flight of stairs and stops in confusion when they enter the basement. It’s a nicely decorated room, with handsome furnishings and a polished cement floor. 

“Mr. Wright, I think we’ve taken a wrong turn somewhere, sir?” Mr. Wright pulls away from him and dumps himself into a heavy leather armchair.

“No, no, Jon would have me on bed rest for the rest of my days, but he’s wrong.” Mr. Wright complains. Elias winces to himself at the dressing-down he’s going to get from his boyfriend. “Light the fire, will you, Elias?”

“Of course, sir,” Elias says miserably, and goes over to the hearth. Jon tramps down the stairs less than five minutes later, looking incensed. 

“James!”

“Yes, dear heart?” Mr. Wright is holding a heavy tome and flicking through it idly. He does not look up.

“You are too old to be this petty,” Jon scolds. “I told you to go rest in your bed!”

“No, you told Elias to put me to bed like a grumpy six-year-old.” Jon visibly calms himself and sets his jaw.

“You have a doctor’s appointment at 8 tomorrow. Eli, do you want some tea?” Elias nods hesitantly, and Jon storms back out of the room. Mr. Wright smiles, that worrying, smug smile again. He looks across the coffee table to where Elias is sitting uncomfortably in an armchair. His gaze pins Elias to the spot.

“Elias Bouchard, do you love my Jon?”

“Er, yes, sir, I really do.”

“Then you’ll sit still, won’t you? You don’t want to mess up that handsome face for him, do you?”

“S-Sir?” Elias barely gets it out before Mr. Wright is on him, scalpel in hand and _carving_ into him. He screams and struggles, but he’s held down by the heaviest of gazes. Mr. Wright is smiling wide as Elias’ vision blurs with tears and pain. His struggles, such as they are, weaken gradually.

“Don’t worry, Elias; think of this as a promotion.”

It’s the last thing he hears.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TWs:  
> drug use. canonical murder (of original elias), mild eye trauma, illness mention
> 
> This is just a series of vignettes leading up to Jonah becoming Elias, which is odd because I apparently am cursed to write only one scene per chapter.  
> I fucked up and got attached to my version of original Elias so here we are. If your name is Elias Bouchard, I WILL make you a dual citizen Eng/Fr man _and_ make you a french mulatto, no one can stop me!!! I love my son Elias and I will be mourning his completely avoidable death, I don't know what kind of person would write this.
> 
> I don't smoke so that whole scene was just me being like "how not to sound like a narc"  
> Jon calls Elias "Sokkwi," which is another one of those pet-names-not-pet-names and means "little fool"  
> Jon IS a monster; he 100% convinced James to let him choose his next host body & then proceeded to date it for two years. Reprehensible lmao. (and no, we'll not think about that weird time where Jon is forced to call his partner his uncle eeeeh)
> 
> As always, socials, @mattitionjames I yell a lot


	8. It's your country, and I'm contraband

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> detectives, what are they detecting?
> 
> Welcome to Maat watched too many cop dramas as an impressionable youth

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Raleigh Ritchie's [Stay Inside](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=rRg-ipjX-vU)
> 
> See end notes for CWs!

Tim is digging through one of the filing cabinets in the main room when the detectives come in. One is a tall hijabi lady, serious-faced and stern, and the other is a brunette white woman with her hair pulled back in a tight bun. Polina from reception is leading them into the basement, a strange look frozen on her face. No one from upstairs really comes down to the basement level, which is just as well, AAS is just a corridor away and Archives isn’t that much higher on the social ladder. Tim would rather not deal with statement givers this early in the morning; they’ve only had a few come in, but even with Jon’s special questionnaire and improved statement form, the process of dealing with the people who come in to give statements can be taxing. Still, Polina is a nice girl, just a couple months out of Uni, she doesn’t need to be forced down in the basement longer than it takes to show people down. She wouldn’t have had to do it at all if Tim had been in the assistants’ office instead of here fucking around with the hundreds of unmarked tapes in this cabinet. He makes a mental note to talk about it to Jon—he can’t believe that his boss knew that all the labels were taken off when he asked Tim to organize them. Tim heaves himself to his feet with an apologetic smile and dusts himself off. He approaches the three women hovering in the doorway and offers a hand. 

“Hello! I’m Tim! Sorry for the wait, I’m the only one in the main office right now, and I stepped away from the phone.” The taller woman gives him a brief smile and shakes his hand. Her companion does not smile and stalks into the room past him. Polina takes this as her cue to leave.

“Good morning, my name is PC Basira Hussein. This is my partner Daisy Tonner. We’re here to speak with a Mr. Jonathan Sims. Would you happen to know where he is?” 

“He’s back in the stacks. If you want to take a seat I can go and get him. Is everything alright?” Tim shows them to the breakroom table and DC Hussein sits down. Tonner does not. She is off-putting at best, but Tim’s never loved the vibe the bobbies give off, so he puts it to the side. Hussein is the talkative one, anyway. 

“Did you ever meet his predecessor? Gertrude Robinson?”

“Er, maybe once or twice,” Tim says, even more wrong-footed. He knows that Elias had sent out an email telling them she had died, but he certainly didn’t know it was in a way that police would be involved. “I used to work up in Research, so sometimes, if you were working on a specific case, she might ring up your desk and ask some questions about it. Nothing too involved.”

“Anything seem off to you about her? Especially right before she went missing? That was in late April of 2014, if you recall,”

“Er, no? Not really? Not to speak ill of the dead or anything, but she honestly scared me a bit. Nothing so bad, but she was just kind of an intense lady. The kind of person you don’t want to get trapped in a conversation with.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well, she just, you just spill your secrets with her, I suppose. Once, at the annual gala, she talked to Jon for like five minutes and he practically ran away crying.”

“Hmm. Thank you, sir. If you wouldn’t mind fetching your boss…?”

“Of course, sorry, I’ll be right back!” Tim hastily goes over to the door to Archival storage and opens it with the key hanging nearby. The stacks are freezing no matter the weather outside, which, while safer for the materials, is absolute misery for Tim, a perpetual summer boy. He regrets not grabbing a jacket before going in, but he feels some urgency in the situation. “Jon?” he calls as he trots down the steps. He hears, distantly, a heavy thump and Jon’s voice cursing. He heads towards it. Jon comes out from the end of one aisle, face flushed with the cold, and clutching an archival box to his chest. Tim swears he’d not recognize the other man without one at this point. Jon is scowling. “There’re some police here. They were asking for you.”

“The police? What the hell do they want me for?” Jon doesn’t stop scowling, even as he dumps the archival box into Tim’s arms and heads back down the aisle to retrieve the kic step. He’d been thrilled about the new shelves Elias had installed, but they had had to change how they did things a bit because of it. No more leaving step stools in the middle of an aisle; you never knew who would open a shelf without checking what was in the next aisle over, _Martin_. “I can’t believe you’d rat on me,” Jon jokes. Tim snorts as he hands over the box. They start their way back towards the door to the offices.

“They were asking about Gertrude Robinson. Seemed like they were just trying to get a handle on things.”

“Oh. Well, they’re going to be pretty disappointed to learn I wasn’t even in the country when she went missing.”

“You were still in DC?”

“Yes. Elias was annoyed because I was supposed to come home for his birthday, but they froze my passport because I made the mistake of not speaking English only in an American airport while looking like this.” He gestures to his own face, which makes Tim laugh. Jon really is quite funny, in a wry, dark sort of way, but you’d never know it until he got comfortable enough with you to stop being a fence post. Sasha and Martin still won’t believe him about it, anyway. 

When they get back into the office, DI Tonner is examining a photograph on the wall, which depicts the Archival team Jon’s dad was head of, and DC Hussein is reading over a statement form. Jon stretches his face into a polite smile, a small thing which goes tight at the edges when he notices what photo Tonner is looking at. Tim wonders if he’ll ever get to the level of friendship where he unlocks Jon’s tragic backstory, because that man has some daddy issues. 

“Hello, I’m Jon Sims,” 

“Hi, Mr. Sims. DC Hussein, that’s DI Tonner; we’d like to ask you a few questions about Gertrude Robinson.” He voice has lost a bit of the friendly edge it had when she was speaking to Tim, but Jon nods agreeably.

“Of course. Would you like to come into my office? I’m happy to answer any questions you have, but I didn’t know her all that well.”

“Well enough to make you cry,” Tonner speaks up at last. Her voice is aggressive and pointed, and Jon frowns. Tim curses himself for not being more judicious when he was talking to them.

“Er. Yes. I do believe she and I had a conversation once that resulted in…my emotions getting the better of me, but I mean, she didn’t know _me_ ; she knew my father.” He waves a hand at the photo Tonner had been examining, drawing everyone’s attention to it. It depicts six people, including a young Gertrude Robinson, Jon’s dad, who he resembles quite closely, a 30-something James Wright, and three other people Tim has no reference for. They’re all smiling brightly and standing in front of the institute. 

“And your father never introduced you two?” Tonner takes a step closer to Jon, whose face kind of twitches. He takes a breath.

“He never had the chance, from what I hear of him. He died when I was quite young.”

“And Robinson never reached out?”

“Not that I know of, but, again, I was a toddler, and the only other person who’d know is dead.”

“And who would that be?” Hussein asks, not looking up from where she is scribbling in a notebook. Jon clenches his teeth.

“James Wright. He was the closest thing I had to a father; he had a stroke a few years back.” His voice is tight, and he is clutching the archival box so hard his knuckles are white. 

“So you two only spoke the once?” 

“No, we had a few conversations over the years. Nothing too deep, I believe she was quite busy, and I was doing my post-graduate in America.”

“Were you in the country when she disappeared?”

“No.”

“Do you remember anything about that time? Anyone you know from the institute mention her?”

“Elias told me she was acting a bit erratically, but from what I can tell, she would get like that when she was chasing a lead.”

“And where did you come to that conclusion?”

“James would sometimes mention it, like ‘oh, the archivist needs to get out of the institute a while, she’s got some esoteric something-something she’s looking for in Australia.’ Elias used to tell me he always knew when she’d submit travel budget requests by the energy in the archives.” Jon shrugs expansively. He looks terribly uncomfortable, and Tim wants to leave, but he’s waited too long by now, so he thinks it’d probably look weird. 

“And how do you know Elias Bouchard?”

“He’s my boyfriend?” Jon says, looking a bit confused. Tim wonders if they’d come straight down to the archives and not talked to Elias first. It seems like he’d be the first stop, and it’s pretty hard to leave his office without learning about his partner.

“Right. When did you get this job?”

“Uh, I’ve only had it for about three months. I was consulting at the Usher Foundation before this, in Washington DC.”

“And do you have any idea why you were offered this job?”

“I mean. Er, I was planning to move back to the UK at the end of last year, and I was going to come here to be a researcher. When Gertrude went missing, Elias asked if I would be acting archivist in the interim, because it’s really the job I’m most qualified for. And then, of course, he got the call that she had passed, and he asked if I’d take the job permanently, and of course I did.”

“If you were more qualified to be an archivist, why not just find an archival job at a different place in London?” Tonner asks.

“It’s kind of embarrassing, but I just,” Jon shrugs. “This is where my family is? My dad worked here, and so did James, and Elias is head of the institute, and Rosie’s one of my closest friends. I tend to get wrapped up in work, so I wanted to make sure I’d be doing it here, where I wouldn’t, um. Be so alone.” His eyes flicker to Tim, who makes an encouraging face. 

“Right.” Says Tonner. Her attitude has been fluctuating throughout the conversation, and while it still is quite aggressive, there is pity mixed in with it now. Jon doesn’t seem to notice, but Tim is good at reading people, so he does.

“Er.I—If you’d like, I have some of her notes, I think? A journal, it was in a hidden drawer in the desk. If-I want to help your investigation?”

“A hidden drawer?” Asks Hussein, interested. She finally looks up from her notepad. Jon nods, shuffles his feet.

“Yes. I could show you,” he says awkwardly. He gestures awkwardly at his office door. It doesn’t yet say his name, but “Head Archivist” is emblazoned on the frosted window. Tonner stalks over to his office door and pushes it open. Jon makes a surprised little noise. He and Tim follow behind her into the office. 

Jon’s office is not a mess, really, but it certainly isn’t clean. He tends to make a nest of his current research, and right now his desk is covered in books and statements and miscellaneous tapes. He grimaces a bit as Tonner gives him a dubious look. On the bookshelf next to his desk, there is a tattered leatherbound journal with ‘J.W. 13’ stamped on the spine in gold. Tonner snatches it up and flips it open. Jon makes an anguished sound. He finally puts the archival box down on top of a nearby file cabinet and crosses his arms. 

“This it?” Tonner asks, obviously uncaring for Jon’s privacy.

“No,” he grits out. Tonner hums, unconcerned, then pauses as she reads a passage. Jon closes his eyes. 

“What the hell is this?” 

“I can’t read your mind, Detective Inspector,” Jon matches her for vitriol. His face is slightly flushed and Tim notices that his fingers are trembling faintly.

“Have you read this whole thing?”

“Yes.”

“Tell me about this entry—23rd March 1968.”

“I believe it is about Mr. Wright’s time in Africa when he was on sabbatical. From what I could tell, he encountered something supernatural which killed his two guides but left him alive for some reason.” Tonner scoffs angrily and whips out her phone to take some pictures. Jon looks livid. “Ms. Robinson’s journal is there on the corner of the desk. Tim here can show you out of my archive. Please, take my card and contact me if there’s anything else you need.” Tonner gives him a dirty look and tosses the journal onto the desk and snatches up Gertrude’s. She stalks over to Jon and gets directly in his face. They stare at each other for a long moment. When she speaks, it’s in such a low, intimate murmur Tim can barely hear it.

“How many people have you killed?” Jon huffs an incredulous laugh.

“How many have you, _Detective Inspector_?” She pushes him, hard, and Jon stumbles back half a step, baring his teeth. “Be careful coming into other people’s homes, little wolf, you do not know where the doors lead.” Without looking away, he pushes the door behind himself further open. He intones, “You have your prize, little wolf, take the exit while you still can.”

Tonner growls. It is a chilling, inhuman sound that makes Tim’s animal hindbrain perk up and urge him to run, but he is rooted in place, staring at the pair in the doorway. DC Hussein clears her throat loudly. Tonner jerks her head up to look at her. Jon does not remove his eyes from the immediate threat.

“We ought to get going, Daisy.” Says DC Hussein. “Mr. Sims, your card?” Jon fishes a card out of his blazer pocket and passes it her way without looking. “Thank you. We’ll see ourselves out.”

“Always happy to help the Met, DC Hussein. On which note, I recommend you all do your research before stepping foot here again.” His delivery is flat, and almost dry, but it is very much a threat. DC Hussein takes it in stride and bodily pulls her partner from the room.

“We’ll keep it in mind.”

The silence they leave is deafening.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs  
> This chapter contains police presence & mild of police violence! References to race-typical and warranted mistrust of police, themes that go with that. Reference to mistreatment of POC by TSA (mild). References to canonical character deaths. Threats of violence.  
> Not so intense as the warnings sound; just Daisy & Basira interrogating Jon about Gertrude's death. 
> 
> I have NO worldly idea what their ranks are??? I did some very surface-level research, but I just decided that they were both plainclothes and Daisy was a higher rank. If anyone knows what their ranks are, pls lmk!  
> I had actually meant this to just be a short lil bit, and as it's mostly conversation, it is pretty short, but I just didn't like it hanging out with the Archive shenanigans I had planned to set up s1. I guess we're keeping in theme of me writing something that turns out is darker than I had wanted. c'est la vie!
> 
> Regardless, i'm very excited for my wives! like 1312, but ALSO.. lady.... also also I promise that not all of Jon's adversity will be directly related to his race, that's a cheap tactic white folk use when writing Black people's stories and is bullshit. I have a cool idea for daisy later on... but she's still a cop rn so we can't be friends yet.
> 
> Where are Sasha and Martin, you ask? I have no answer. Maybe Sasha is staging a one-woman performance of Les Mis in the institute lobby and Martin is running tech? Who Knows. They aren't doing research, that's NOT their job. Tim was not offered a part in Sasha's show u_u
> 
> Anyway! Thank y'all for reading and commenting! I grow stronger with each word you write me  
> I can be found pretty much everywhere @mattitionjames.


	9. I think you should know you're his favorite worst nightmare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> tgif am I right fellas?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from Arctic Monkeys' [D is for Dangerous](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=0w6WlfdPSms)
> 
> Sorry for the longer chapter this time, Plot is happening :)  
> See end notes for CWs

“I think Jon’s in the Mafia.” Says Tim when Sasha comes back from the loo. She quirks a confused grin at him as she sits down. They’re at the Greek place around the corner from the institute where they’ve been getting lunch together for about a year now. They don’t come every lunch break, but they’re on fairly good terms with the owner and they have a long-running bet on which of them the owner’s nephew has a crush on. Tim and Jon have been weird around each other the whole week, Tim has been jumping every time he notices Jon in the same room. Whenever it happens, Jon gets such a _look_ on his face that Martin’s eyes go liquid with sympathy and Tim’s hackles raise higher. Sasha has been watching them carefully, and Jon’s been equal parts listless and furious all week, having muttered conversations on his personal phone or sneaking out of the archives and coming back reeking of cigarette smoke. Even Elias has been looking a bit strained and tired. Tim has had a manic energy about him all week, starting the day with ‘research’ and not coming up for air until Sasha has to physically remove him from his computer for a lunch break. She’s glad it’s only taken five days for things to come to a head. How absolutely shite would it be if she had to deal with animosity between Jon and Tim for months on end?

“Explain.” 

“Okay, so those coppers came in Monday morning and they wanted to talk to Jon about Gertrude, and they asked him all about where he was when she went missing, and how did he get the job and all that, and he said that he found her secret journal in a secret drawer in her desk, and the bitch cop stormed into his office even though he had already offered to talk to them in there and she—you know how Jon has daddy issues?”

“Of course,”

“Yeah, so he has one of James Wright’s journals or whatever on a bookshelf and it was obviously not what he was talking about, but the bitch cop was like ‘is this it’ and he was like ‘no obviously not,’ and she read through it and got really mad, and I think it must have been written in code because she asked him what it meant and he gave a really vague non-answer, and she got angrier and she fucking pushed him when he got mad that she was being a cunt and he said this really creepy cryptic bullshit about opening doors in other people’s houses and calling her ‘little wolf’—”

“What?”

“I know! And the other cop had to remove her from the room and Jon was really mad and completely ignored me and called Elias and said ‘did you let a hunter into my archives?’ which like, I don’t think they even talked to Elias even though I would pick him as top subject for Gertrude’s murder, so how the fuck would he have known they were there? I’ve been trying to figure it out all week, and I think the Institute is a front and Jon is a mafia prince.” Tim is breathing heavily by the end of his spiel and Sasha presses her hands together in front of her mouth. She sighs deeply. This would almost be funny if it weren’t so impossible _and_ believable. 

“I hate how plausible that is.” Sasha says, at length. Tim pumps a fist in vindication. “But _if_ it is true, we really shouldn’t get involved.”

“Oh, what the fuck, Sash?” Tim whines. “I did so much research, don’t you want to know my theories?”

“I actually do, Tim, but not right now, and not anywhere near Jon. I want to go back to work and not have to worry if you are going to make Jon cry or try to fight you. I can’t be assured you’d win.”

“Hey!”

“Tim.” The man in question pouts at her. She raises her eyebrows. “Please pretend to be an adult, for me?”

“Fine.”

“Good. Let’s get back to the office, I want to get this box done today.” They clear up the remnants of their meal and head back to the Institute. Sasha steers the conversation to their weekly movie date, and they argue amiably about their choices. Tim argues for the shittiest romcom she has ever heard of, expressive face flushed slightly in the cold air. She smiles privately to herself.

Late in the day, someone comes in to give a statement. Sasha has just finished filing her box of statements into excel and fancies a walk about, so she goes up to reception to fetch her. She’s an Asian woman in her early twenties, dye-blonde, and is hunched in on herself, hands clutching her lapels as if she spent too much time out in the January cold. She jumps when Sasha introduces herself. Her voice is quiet to the point of non-existence, but Sasha gathers that her name is Naomi. Sasha tries to reassure her as they descend to the basement. She feels increasingly like she’s leading to woman to her doom, but she brushes the feeling aside. When they get down into the archives, Martin is just putting on a pot of tea, chattering to Jon, who is flipping through a file and giving monosyllabic responses. He looks up as they enter, and Sasha could swear there is something predatory in his eye. 

“Are you quite alright, miss?” says Jon, wincing a bit when Naomi jumps at the sound of his voice. She is trembling a bit.

“…yes, I’m fine, just a bit cold.”

“Martin here can make you a cuppa, if you think that’d warm you up a bit,” Jon offers, reaching a hand out to shake. “I’m Jon Sims, the Archivist.” Naomi tentatively shakes his hand and nods.

“Naomi Hearne. I wouldn’t turn down a mint tea,” she says it awkwardly, but Martin just smiles wide and pulls out one of the boring MI branded mugs they keep in the cabinet for guests. Jon guides Naomi to the table and pulls out a pen and one of the short questionnaires. Sasha and Martin exchange glances. Usually this is the assistants’ job.

“I’ll be taking your statement, Miss Hearne, but we’ll have you fill out this quick questionnaire and waiver beforehand.”

“A waiver?”

“Yes, sometimes talking about your experiences with the unnatural can bring up some intense feelings, memories, you know. We used to have people complain of nightmares, which of course we can’t control; we’ve just got this waiver to say that you won’t try to hold us responsible for your subconsciousness’ healing process.”

“Oh.” She says, reading over the short waiver. “I suppose that makes sense.”

“Take your time with the forms, miss Hearne, you can just knock on my office door when you’re ready.” At her nod, Jon pats her comfortingly on the hand, and goes into his office, leaving the door open a crack. Martin goes back to the tea, mouth twisted in an expression Sasha has learned is his version of a frown. 

“If you need anything, just shout, we’re right in this office and we’ll take any excuse to stop working for a mo.” Sasha tells Naomi with a friendly smile. Naomi smiles a bit, a tiny, trembling thing. Martin brings her a mug of tea and the two of them go back into the assistant office. Tim turns from his computer screen, obviously prepared with a witty rejoinder, but falters when he sees them.

“What happened?”

“Nothing, really,” says Martin. “Jon’s just being a bit odd.” He flaps a hand in the air as if he could wave what he’d just said away. “I-I mean, not that—it’s just—”

“Jon was really nice to the statement giver and it really skeeved us out,” Sasha declares and dumps herself into her chair. Martin splutters.

“What, like he came onto her?” Tim asks, incredulous.

“No!” Both Martin and Sasha object in equal volume. 

“He just was nice. It was weird because he was nice, not the _way_ he was being nice.” Sasha explains. Tim’s eye narrow.

“He didn’t…treat her like _family_ , did he?”

“Timothy,” Sasha groans.

“What are you talking about?” asks Martin. Tim beckons him closer.

“We think Jon may be in the mob,” he whispers, much to Sasha’s consternation. Martin squints in disbelief.

“This isn’t about those detectives is it?”

“Right on, Marto! I’ve compiled a case about it, you know.”

“Er. Alright.” Martin says, slowly. He’s processing. 

“Look, come to my flat tomorrow for lunch, I’ll explain it all.” Tim offers. Martin considers it, but ultimately concedes.

\--

Jon is humming contentedly as he transcribes Naomi Hearne’s statement to paper. They’d found that if you finessed it right, you could digitize scanned images of true statements, as long as they were low-quality enough. Jon just likes having coordinating sets.

Elias is coming down the stairs to the archives. Jon smiles to himself and dashes a hand over his hair to make sure he looks presentable. Elias has been a bit secretive lately, and Jon is determined to try and get it out of him the mundane way first, before resorting to Knowing it. He can hear Elias come into the Archives. He greets Tim and Sasha, who are out in the breakroom dawdling while they wait for Martin to finish up. They’ve loudly announced that they’re going for after work drinks, which Jon thinks they may actually do, but their real plan is to search his office for proof he’s part of a crime family, which is so funny that he’s carefully planted some ‘proof’ to convince them further. Elias catches up with Tim and Sasha for a few minutes while Jon continues his work of transcription. They’re playing a little game of chicken, and Jon is nothing if not competitive. He’ll sit in this damned office all weekend if Elias refuses to concede first. Not moments after he has the thought is Elias opening his office door and giving him a put-upon look. Jon just smiles at him, wide enough to show his dimple, which always makes Elias’ heart melt. It works, of course, and his partner rolls his eyes fondly.

“We have places to be, Angel,” Elias offers in greeting. Jon pouts. “Don’t give me that look.”

“My dance card is full, Elias,” Jon sighs tiredly. He sets about gathering his things to go home for the weekend. Usually he and Elias come in Saturdays, and sometimes Sunday, but Noémie is flying in from Nice, and they’re hosting her in London for the week. 

“You’d deprive my dear sister of your presence?”

“Maybe I would,”

“Every moment out of your presence threatens to end my life,” Elias declares dramatically. Jon laughs. Elias grins as he holds out Jon’s coat. It is a handsome object, clean cut wool and silk, so dark red as to be nearly black with contrasting topstitching. Elias got it for him for Christmas, on recommendation from Annabelle. She’s always had impeccable taste. Jon swings it on and allows Elias to snag him into a kiss. “Hello, darling, how was your day?”

“It was good,” Jon murmurs into his mouth, meeting his lips a few more times.

“Yeah?”

“Mm-hm. We had a lovely young lady in to give a statement.” Jon pulls away and turns to the coat rack for his scarf. Elias holds the door for him as they leave his office, then the archives. Jon waves amiably at his assistants as they leave. They call goodbyes. They’re lucky Jon isn’t actually a ‘mafia prince’ because they’re acting very suspicious and he’s not sure what he’d have done by now if he were involved in human criminal activity.

Noémie’s flight gets in about half an hour late, during which time Jon and Elias play a people watching game Jon used to play when he was staying with Annabelle. They take bets on what some person or another is waiting for or thinking about, one of them Knows the answer, and whoever’s guess was closer gets the prize, which, in this case, is a Malteser, but the stakes are still pretty high. Jon feels spoiled in moments like this, where Elias will shed his perpetually uptight persona and play with him. It reminds Jon of his Eli a bit, which always makes their little games that much more nostalgic. Jon is not a young man. He’s been alive for centuries, and the him that is Jon has been around for just about 40 years. Elias is quite old, too, and, though he is both the younger and more experienced of the two, he always takes the part of the older, stick-in-the-mud type while Jon gets to play the pretty, young man about town. He loves it when they can both play like they’re the ages their bodies look like they are. Elias leans in close to his ear, as if to whisper, but speaks directly into his mind, because he knows Jon likes that.

_“If you want a hot young boyfriend, we could arrange you something.”_

Jon grins. “I’ve got you and Peter; I think I’m good on boyfriends for now.” Elias hums in thought, as though considering the veracity of that statement.

_“And what about your assistant you like so much? Martin? He fancies you, you know,”_

“You’re a menace to society, get away from me,” Jon admonishes, putting a hand on Elias’ chest as if to push him away. Elias catches his wrist and places a kiss in the center of his palm. “Scoundrel,”

“You wound me, Angel,” mourns Elias, giving him a rare rakish smile. Jon giggles but turns away from him, affecting distain.

“You deserve it.” 

“Oh, is it bully Eli hours? Let me get in on this.” Says a voice from in front of their bench. Jon grins and leaps from his seat, crowing,

“Noé! I’m so glad to see you! Save me from this man!” Noémie laughs and they embrace, exchanging bisous. Elias stands, too, gathering up their coats. Noémie gives him a hug they all exchange pleasantries. Noémie and Jon chatter excitedly about their plans for the visit as the three of them dodge through the crowd. 

-

Elias takes him out for dinner on Saturday. Noémie forces Jon to pamper with her, and he lets her swipe sparkling gold eyeshadow over his lids. He forces himself not to Know anything the whole day, because Elias told her his secret, which means it’s a good surprise for Jon. He smiles to himself as he paints his top lip with black lipstick. He has some guesses as to what the surprise is. He still wants to know though.

“Will you tell me what Eli’s planning?” asks Jon. Noémie hums a negative. Jon pouts.

“That only works on Elias.”

“You’re so mean to me,” Jon complains, throwing himself on the nearby chaise. Elias is nothing if not vain, so their closet is a ridiculous place, which includes a beautiful vanity table that once belonged to Jonah Magnus’ eldest sister. The Pharaoh, who was sleeping on the back of the chaise, meows in discontent and jumps onto the floor. Jon whines mournfully and Noémie laughs at him. Eventually, she deems him ready, having done his hair and forced him to actually apply eyeliner, and allows him to put on his suit. It’s a flattering cut, edging on feminine and deep purple. It goes extraordinarily well with his cashmere coat.

Elias meets him in the entry way, wearing a charcoal suit, with subtle pinstripes of shiny black going through it. He offers Jon an arm, looking for all the world like prince charming. Noémie takes a few discrete pictures of them which Jon pretends not to notice. She’s also dressed up, but she’s waiting from a ride from one of her uni friends, since they’re all going to get drunk and reminisce about the good old days. They say goodbye to her and get into Elias’ big SUV.

It should be harder to surprise Jon, but he _likes_ surprises, so he usually lets the good ones happen, which certainly is to Elias’ benefit tonight. They go to Jon’s favorite restaurant and spend a couple hours there, talking and laughing over a beautiful dinner. Jon’s about to accept the waiter’s offer of dessert when Elias shakes his head and asks for the check.

“I have more planned for tonight, if you don’t mind, darling,” He confides, taking Jon’s hand and pressing a kiss to the back of it. Jon loves his plans, so he smiles magnanimously and says,

“Dazzle me, heart of mine,”

Elias takes him to a little hole-in-the wall Egyptian place that serves a version of his favorite sweet bread from his childhood. Nothing is the same as it was when he was a child, for obvious reasons, and even if it were, no one could match up to his mother’s skill. Still, it’s a gesture that is so touching that it nearly brings him to tears. Elias buys a loaf to take home, and a couple slices to eat then, and they take their warm bread and a thermos of cider on a walk in the nearby park. 

They pause in front of a pond and watch the water shift in its quiet way. Elias pulls him closer to his side and presses a kiss to his temple.

“How would you feel about marrying me, little ox?” He says it in that casual tone he affects when he cares very much about the answer, so Jon considers it seriously. Elias is quiet too, awaiting his answer.  
“I think I would like that, Jonah.” Jon says, finally. Elias breathes out in relived joy and pulls out a little velvet box. He offers it to Jon. The ring nestled inside is a simple delicate gold band with the eye of Ra etched into the face. Its pupil is a glittering emerald. The inscription inside the band reads, ‘love of him has taken me.’ Jon smiles up at his partner, whose handsome green eyes stare out of a face he didn’t originally own. “Put it on me?”

Elias takes his hand delicately and slides the ring on his third finger. He kisses Jon’s hand.

“You missed.” Jon teases, face upturned. Elias chuckles, cups Jon’s face in his other hand, and places a sweet little kiss on Jon’s forehead. Jon scoffs fondly.

“Was that not what you wanted?” Jon entwines their fingers and curls his right hand into Elias’ elbow.

“No,” Jon whispers, delighted. Elias leans in and kisses his nose.

“No?” Jon pouts and hums a negative. Elias tips his head into a better angle and kisses the side of his mouth.

“A little to the left,” Jon whispers.

“My apologies,” Elias whispers back, and finally, finally kisses him properly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs  
> discussion of organized crime, unhealthy workplace environments, live statement taking. food & alcohol mentions. 
> 
> uploading so soon bc last chapter was supposed to be part of this...I wanted to make sure it was skippable. Who told you to expect consistency from me O.O
> 
> I love Tim!!! my sweet son, gone kayaking too soon.. BUT HERE, there is only galaxy brain tim and honestly I respect him. This feels like a weird b plot but what can you do lol. We'll see how it goes.  
> Elias' sister Noémie... actual goddess... I never make OCs all I can assume is that I got too attached to her name because I am a terrible francophile.   
> Fun fact about me: I hate marriage proposals! That sounds bad, but I can't deal with proposal speeches,,, they ping that spot in my little aro heart that's like 'oh no thanks bro'. Just don't get your hopes up for a lot of Feelings Talk,,,  
> (also I've just noticed that it's friday the 13th, which, nice! consistently a lucky day:) )
> 
> Thank y'all for reading & commenting <3  
> As always: @mattitionjames I have no impulse control which is sometimes fun


	10. They may think they’d never choose to be the man that you’ve become

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this is a workplace dramedy first

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Chapter title is from The Correspondents' [Puppet Loosely Strung](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=lfG4V6WKNFE)
> 
> See end notes for CWs!

The aggression with which Tim opens the door makes Sasha’s headache worse. She’s curled up in the armchair that has been her spot for as long as they’ve known each other. Othello is curled up at the foot of the chair, snoring away. He wakes briefly at the commotion of Tim letting Martin in, and wags his tail, but he’s an old dog who was never really one for people when he was young, so he doesn’t get up. Sasha gives him a few scritches. She and him have been commiserating over Tim’s…attitude today. He was fine when they were at the theatre, but since they’ve gotten back and he’s been ‘preparing the evidence,’ Tim has been ramping himself up further and further into a mania. Martin is dressed in a _What the Ghost!?_ sweatshirt and jeans and they share a look. Sasha is wearing a wonky sweater that Tim made with sparkly yarn in the colours of the bi flag during that stint he had where he made himself learn to knit. He had finished the last stitch on the sweater, looked at it, and promptly yeeted his knitting needles into the void of his hall closet, where all the evidence of his failed hobbies goes to die. Sasha has learned to just let him have his thing and reaps the benefits. See: this sweater, which is kind of itchy against bare skin, but she is wearing a turtleneck under it, so she’s pretty happy overall. 

They order in for lunch, and Tim breaks out his ‘research’ as they’re curled up in his living room.

“So, I looked into Jon’s dad first, and he’s pretty impossible to find. He seems to just show up in London in 196-something, and he’s one of James Wright’s closest friends. I mean, everything from that time was pretty sparse, but there’s just nothing of him until London. So I started looking into James Wright. There’s tonnes of material about the heads of the institute, if you know where to look,”

“And how is HR James?” asks Sasha, much to Tim’s consternation.

“You’re just jealous that you’re not the only James in my life,” he accuses.

“Take it back!” 

“Moving on?” interjects Martin.

“Right, so the way Wright got the position and inherited all of Mendelssohn’s shit is pretty suspect, but if you look back, until Elias, basically, it’s all pretty weird. I think that Wright killed his predecessor to get the job, but that he decided to give the _job_ to Elias and the _family_ to Jon.”

“Wait, where does Jon’s dad come into it, again?” asks Martin. He doesn’t seem quite convinced by Tim’s explanation. He does look quite entertained, though.

“That’s where it’s weird for me,” Tim sighs, “Wright went on sabbatical and just…came back with this guy, Sebi, and as far as I can tell just moved him in to his house? There’s no evidence that Sebi ever lived in Egypt, and he only lived with Wright for as long as he was in the UK, too.” Tim shuffles through his papers and Martin gets a funny look on his face. He looks at Sasha, who has a sudden realization.

“Oh, Timothy,” She sighs, covering her face with both hands. Martin starts laughing.

“What?” 

“T-Tim,” snorts Martin, steadying himself on the back of the sofa. Sasha can’t hold back a bark of laughter, either. “Why would James Wright come home from spending six months in Africa with a new _friend_?”

“Er…” Tim looks put on the spot. “That’s what I was trying to figure out?”

“For someone so smart and so queer, you really are an idiot,” says Sasha, fondly. “James Wright was gay.”

“What?” 

“It was something of an open secret; that’s why he divorced his wife when he got the job as head of the institute, he was finally high profile enough that people couldn’t do anything about it.”

“Oh shit,” Tim exclaims, “Jon said that Wright was the closest thing he ever had to a father!”

“Oh, that’s sad,” Martin says, “James and Sebi probably wanted to raise Jon together, but when Sebi died, James had no legal claim on him.” Sasha coos empathetically, making Othello perk his ears up. She pats his side. “It doesn’t really tie in well to your mafia theory, though, Tim.”

“Well, if James Wright had such an impact that Jon would say he was basically his dad, and we think that Wright was the boss, we can assume that Wright trained him to take over when he died.” Posits Sasha. 

“We’d have to look more into Jon’s childhood,” considers Tim. Martin winces theatrically.

“Maybe we should just drop it, Tim. If Jon really is a-a mob boss or whatever, we should just leave well enough alone and have plausible deniability when they time comes.”

“Plausible deniability?” Tim says incredulously. Martin rolls his eyes.

“I have shit to do, Timothy, I’m not going to prison. And I’m certainly not getting murdered, thank you very much. Maybe in a few years, but I’ve got some stuff on my plate first,”

“It’s always good to have a plan B,” offers Sasha. 

“Right. Plan A, this job; Plan B, get murdered for knowing too much.”

“Distant plan C,” says Tim, “get arrested as an accomplice to crimes you didn’t even know about.”

“Sounds good to me; let me get my planner to write this all down,” Martin makes as if to leave, making the other two laugh. “But seriously, I think maybe we should just leave off of the, er, research. If we find something out, then that’s one thing, but…”

“Martin’s right,”

“Yeah. It just sucks that we didn’t find anything better in Jon’s office though,” Tim laments. All they’d found was a scrawled address that led to an abandoned warehouse and a note underneath that said, ‘call A. about new supplier??’ They were significant, but not super interesting, especially given Tim’s reluctance to do anything even _resembling_ urban exploring. 

“Oh!” says Martin. Sasha and Tim turn to him. “Er, sorry, I think maybe I _did_ find something?”

“Why didn’t you tell us?” Sasha asks, brows furrowed. Martin flushes.

“Well, when we were there, you two were bickering so I just put it in my pocket and thought I’d tell you later, but then I forgot about it. I found it in my coat when I was leaving my flat, but I-I didn’t want to interrupt?”

“You can always interrupt, Martin, we’re your friends.” Tim tells him. “What did you find?”

“A letter, I think? I’ll get it,” Martin retrieves a folded sheet of heavy paper from his coat. He comes back over to the living area and holds it out. Tim takes it from him. The seal is still attached the paper. It is dark green wax, and the seal is a stylized symbol of an eye. He begins to unfold it.

“Okay, wait,” says Sasha. “I know I’ve been complicit in this, but…do you guys not think this is an invasion of privacy?”

“Er,” says Tim.

“Maybe you’re right,” concedes Martin, who is arguably the least invested in Tim’s ‘mystery.’ Tim frowns.

“Please, Sash? I really need to know what’s going on. Haven’t you thought weird shit has been happening in the archives?”

“I think it’s the same kind of weird shit that artifacts has! We catalogue scary stories; if there were some evil conspiracy, don’t you think it would have something to do with those damn stories?”

“Well, if that’s the case, don’t you want to know?”

“…fuck. Yes, I do,” Sasha sighs. Tim crows in victory.

“Okay, okay,” Martin says, “I’ll read it, shall I?” Tim and Sasha make agreeable noises. Martin retrieves the letter from where Tim had tossed it onto the coffee table, takes a breath and reads,

" _Little Ox,_

_Barely a week you’ve been gone and already I am swanning about the manor like a heartbroken Victorian maiden. I cannot focus much on my reading, for the library is your domain; I cannot bare to take my dinner in the kitchen, for you do not sit across from me at our table; I am bereft, my darling, and I wonder how I am to go on without your for these coming months!_

_Laughing at me yet, dearest? I jest, of course, though I do miss you horribly. I have been doing nothing much of note. The Institute is a right mess, and getting messier, I fear, what with your sudden departure. I do worry about our dear Gertrude; she has been in a state of mania that I had never before seen from her! Perhaps I will speak to her these coming days, see how I may assuage her guilt. (For I believe it is guilt she is feeling. I know there’s no way you’d blame her for what happened, but I rather do think it was her instigating that exacerbated the situation so. She’s much like you in that respect; your very own little protégé, on her own path to causing as many problems as she thinks she can get away with.) Maybe I will just ask her how she is doing. That’s worked for you before. Irregardless, I have been doing little else but grieve your loss, my darling, and I have been assured that I will continue to do little else!_

_Our Peter has been up in arms about your travels as well, he stormed off in quite the huff when I told him. (And why must I always be the bearer of bad news, Dreadful thing, never let it be you who others are mad at!) He’s been at sea ever since, so I am doubly alone. Serves you right if he brings me round to his god for this terrible slight you’ve inflicted upon me!_

_Reading this back now, I worry you may think I am too serious or, worse yet, amused by your absence. I am nothing of the sort. As always, I am just the right amount of missing you and perfectly fine, so worry not for my feelings of you, dearest._

_I was all prepared to send this off when your little friend contacted me: the girl has a new Mother, if you would believe it. Of course you are too intuitive, darling thing, if I didn’t know better, I’d think you could see the future. I have told her you are willing, so expect a letter from our Miss Caine in short form. She is not fragile as others may be in her position, though that, I assume, is a trapping of her position, specifically. Even still, you are a pillar, and perhaps the two of you will find yourselves even faster friends. You do rather need some friends who are as metropolitan as yourself._

_I have little else to report. Reply back if you can spare me the time; I know you are busy in Alexandria. (And how glad was I to hear that you were not_ too _busy; I was worried the lengths you might’ve run yourself if there were no place for Us in your homeland. I am grateful that you are taken care of, as it were.)_

 _My heart is yours—  
J. _”

There is a mighty silence after he finishes, during which, the three of them just look at each other. 

“So…” Tim says, finally, “Jon’s dad… he didn’t die at all, did he?”

-

Rosie is hungover. She’s not usually the type to drink so heavily on a school night, but last night was her and Savanah’s anniversary, so they’d gotten a little pissed before they’d finally fell into bed. She has an unreasonably sized mug of coffee by her elbow and a travel mug further filled with the bitter ambrosia waiting in her bag for when she finishes it. 

Suffice it to say, she’s not prepared for the energy Jon trails when he all but skips into the lobby area of the executive offices. His hair is down for once, and the little gold beads at the tips of his locs clatter pleasingly as he tosses his head. He gives her a coy little smile and presses both his hands on the surface of her desk. The tips of his hair are dyed slivery white, to match the streaks of grey that trail like so much stardust from his temples. Rosie affects a serious face. 

“Can I help you, sir?” She says it in her best ‘done with your shit’ receptionist voice, and Jon scrunches up his nose. The little stud in his right nostril glitters in the light. 

“Notice anything different, Rosie?” He asks, flipping his hair with his left hand. She hums thoughtfully, looking him over. He’d texted her as Noémie was bleaching his locs, so she doubts that’s what he means. He’s been holed up in the basement since the weekend, and the most she’s seen him is a quick wave as he ushers Elias out for lunch or home for the day. Usually, the two of them go out for lunch on Tuesdays. Jon pretends it’s so that he can check on Elias, but they really just use it as an excuse to gossip. It’s only Monday, so they haven’t talked much. He takes a step away from her desk, heels clicking, and holds his arms out dramatically. Rosie laughs at him, but considers him more closely.

“Well, you’re certainly taller than usual,” She says dryly. He’s wearing a pair of glossy black boots that she recalls from last winter as his favorites. Nothing new, really. “I don’t know, Jay, unless you mean your hair, which looks great, by the way, I—” she pauses. Somehow, Jon just has this presence which makes him _glitter_ , no matter what jewelry he’s wearing, it always catches the light and draws eyes. It’s something of a superpower, really. Today, his left ring finger winks at her. “Jon!”

“Yes…?” He slowly tucks his hair behind his ears, showing off the delicate gold band on his hand. Rosie squeals in excitement and jumps up from her chair. Jon laughs delightedly as she comes around the desk and grabs his hand.

“Jon! Holy shit!” 

“I know!”

“Tell me literally everything!” She demands, and Jon flutters his free hand in excitement. He tells her all about the previous weekend, as effusive as she’s ever seen him, blush high on his cheeks, pressing his hands to them in embarrassed habit. Rosie knows he does it to stop himself from flapping his hands, which she knows that Elias has been trying to convince him is not something to be embarrassed about, but he hasn’t had much success. Sometimes the formative years are just too formative, Rosie thinks. 

Elias’ office door opens. He’s had a phone meeting all with Mr. Fairchild all morning, though it was only scheduled for about half an hour. Rosie thinks that he should really know better by now; Mr. Fairchild can talk for absolute eons. Jon cuts himself off mid-sentence, somehow scandalized to see his fiancé leaning in the doorway of his own office. 

“Don’t stop, angel, I was enjoying it,”

“Shut up,” whines Jon. Rosie hides a smile as she goes back to her desk. Those two were made for each other. They’d been like that since she’d met them, anyway. She’d only been James’ assistant for a couple years before his death, but Jon and Eli had been a matched set for what seems like decades to her. She’s frankly surprised it’s taken them this long, but she supposes that they’re still young. Elias had gone through something of a crisis when James had died, anyway. Jon had been too wrapped up in his grief to notice, but Rosie privately thinks that watching his mentor die in front of him had given Elias something of a shock. He’d become a lot more serious, and a lot more focused. His sense of humor had gone from light and quirky to smug and dry. He’d started dressing like an adult. She’d tried to talk to Jon about the changes, but Jon was nearly inconsolable for those few months after James’ passing, and she hadn’t wanted to make him question his anchor lest he float away in his grief. 

She glances over to where Jon and Elias have gravitated towards each other. Elias’ hand is resting lightly on Jon’s waist and they’re speaking in low voices; Elias seems to be complaining about Mr. Fairchild. Jon is resting his hand on Elias’ chest. It’s an intimate moment that Rosie for some reason doesn’t feel like she’s intruding upon. She smiles to herself and takes a fortifying gulp of coffee. She’s glad those two finally got their act together. Maybe they’ll want to take a couples’ vacation with her and Savanah in the summer. That would be fun. 

-

Jon isn’t in yet when Tim gets into the archives. Sasha is there, scrolling through twitter as she nurses a strong, bitter cup of English breakfast. Tim knows that she’s the type to stay up late, though she categorically denies having any type of insomnia. He greets her with a smile and goes to his own desk quietly, just basking in the early-morning calm. The archives are always quiet, of course, but it’s a habit Tim’s developed from working in Research. He never used to be the kind to come early, but there was always a morning rush in research, where everyone would come in for 9, and start setting up their day, getting coffee, chatting. It wouldn’t have gotten to him before he’d joined the institute, but he was a different man then, and it did annoy him, so he started coming in earlier, taking that first hour alone in the grand, quiet room and shaping himself back into Tim, the social butterfly. 

“I put the letter back where Martin said he found it,” says Sasha. 

“It go alright?”

“Yeah, it looked like he hadn’t been back into the office since Friday.”

“Oh, that’s weird. He’s usually in on Saturdays at least.” Sasha hums in response, and they settle into companionable silence. Tim considers how well she can read him sometimes. To her, he’s a favorite book, a familiar little puzzle, and he’s never been so glad to be known so well. He hadn’t even noticed her doing it, either. He loves her. It feels like they’ve known each other forever, and he’s been trying to figure out _how_ he loves her. 

When Jon floats in, after even Martin, who is perpetually late, he’s wearing a dreamy little smile and greets them effusively as he goes into his office. He comes into their office a few hours later, holding a small stack of files. 

“Did you not receive all those files back from research? I think I’m missing one, here.” He asks. Sasha hums in consideration and starts looking through the few files on her desk. She’s a pile maker, so if there’s a file missing, nine times out of ten, it’s on her desk. Tim only has two folders on his desk, but he glances over them to make sure he’s not the culprit. He shrugs at Jon, who sighs. Usually, this kind of thing would make Jon more annoyed, but he’s been in a good mood all day. The assistants’ office shares a wall with Jon’s, and they’ve been able to hear him humming off and on. Tim looks him over. He doesn’t look that different from his usual, if a little more put together than is his wont. Sasha doesn’t find the file in her stuff and Jon sighs. Drums his fingers on the back of the file as he thinks. 

“Is that new?” asks Sasha, suddenly. Jon awards her a wide smile and offers her his left hand, palm down.

“Maybe,” he says coyly. She huffs a laugh as she examines his hand. Tim gets up and goes over to her desk, interested. Jon’s ring finger bears a gold band. 

“You haven’t gone and got engaged, have you, boss?”

“Yes! Elias proposed over the weekend,” Jon looks incandescent, a happy blush high on his cheeks. 

“Congratulations!” says Tim, clapping him on the shoulder. Jon ducks his head with a bashful thanks. “Double boss is finally making an honest man out of ya!” Sasha lets out a surprised laugh and Jon pushes Tim away playfully. 

“You all get back to work; I don’t have to take this abuse,”

“C’mon, Jon, admit you love us,” Sasha cajoles. Jon pretends not to hear her. Eventually, Tim and Sasha get their teasing out and Jon bids them goodbyes.

“I suppose I’ll go ask Zariah if they’ve still got this file upstairs,” he sighs. Tim stops him. 

“I’ll go up there if you want,” he offers. Jon quirks a half-smile at him. “I really just fancy a walk, if you don’t mind?”

“Sure, Tim. It’s the Carlos Vittery statement, I think Joseph was researching it.”

“Joe with the hair or Joseph?” asks Tim. Jon squints.

“Joe with the hair, I believe,”

“Right-o, bossman, I’ll get on it.” Tim grabs his lanyard and starts his way upstairs. The basement door has a special lock on it that only the basement dwellers have key cards to, as a precaution for artifact assessment and storage. AAS is a mill for workplace accidents, so they’re relegated to the super basement, and archives is just so big that they’re better suited underground.

Tim goes through the airlock and makes his way up the stairs towards the reading room. Research didn’t have it’s own department when the Institute was founded, as the story goes, so once they found that they’d have to hire on so many researchers to keep up with the demands of the Institute’s work, they’d converted a reading room that was separate from the library to the research department. It really is a beautiful place, too, all dark wood and high, arched ceilings. Light comes in all day through the intricately designed windows, and the cool of the air con doesn’t feel as harsh when the warm light is suffusing the room. Zariah’s desk is a converted circulation desk, and she presides over all the researchers’ desks at the top of the room. That’s where Tim heads when he arrives in the department. He’s waylaid a bit by his colleagues, and he chats his way across the room, making jokes and asking after pets and children, wearing that handsome, fragile persona like a second skin. 

Zariah greets him warmly when he makes his way up to her desk. He returns the greeting in kind, and they trade pleasantries for a few minutes before he brings up the reason he came to see her.

“Jon was asking if we missed a statement when we got that last batch from you all. Carlos Vittery?”

“Oh, Joe had that one,” says Zariah, with a twist of the mouth. “He was almost finished with it, I think, but he’s been out sick all week. Bad stomach bug, from what I hear.”

“Aw, that’s too bad. Give him our regards from the archives, will ya?”

“I will,” Zariah laughs. Tim makes his way back to the archives, frowning in thought. Joe is never sick. His immune system is made of iron; he basically mainlines ginger and turmeric tea. He hopes that there’s nothing too dire going on.

-

“What was it he called you?” Rosie asks one day, while Jon is leant against her desk waiting for Elias to get his coat so they can go to lunch. He had a meeting with Shahir from the library, which always go overlong because they end up chatting about the trashy romance novels Elias denies reading. He should really know better than to schedule them before lunch. Elias listens to their conversation through the open door as he packs up a few files that he can work on while he’s out of the office.

“I don’t know what you mean,” Jon says haughtily. Rosie snorts a laugh.

“Odds on you telling me,” she says, and Elias grins to himself. Jon, for some reason, can never resist a game of odds on, and, for an even more inscrutable reason, always ends up reading the other person’s mind and matching them. 

“No!” Jon protests, “I always lose!”

“Just don’t lose this time then,” Rosie advises smugly. “Go on,”

“…60,”

“Okay! 3, 2, 1…” Rosie pauses, and simultaneously, they say, “47!”  
Jon is still whining when Elias comes out of his office, coat on, and laptop bag slung over his shoulder. 

“What have you done to my fiancé, Rosie?” 

“Tried to make him tell the truth,” Rosie closes her eyes and shakes her head in mock disappointment. “He’s a real liar, boss, get out while you still can.” Elias chuckles lightly as Jon pouts. They both look at him expectantly.

“Fine! He calls me ‘inkblot’ sometimes, is that what you want?”

“That’s so cute!” Rosie squeals, and Jon finally gives in and hides his face in his hands. Elias smiles at their antics. Jon never got on well with Sharon, James’ last assistant, but he had seemed to find some kinship with Rosie. 

“We’d best be off, dearest, or we’ll never get back in time for my 3 o’clock.”

Jon makes a face. “You meet Peter at 3 on Thursdays; I think he deserves to wait a little,”

Rosie is always so pleased to see them banter like this. She thinks it humanizes Elias a bit, makes him a bit more approachable. He gives Jon a besotted smile.

“You, my dear, are a cruel man.” Jon takes his offered hand and waves goodbye to Rosie.

“I am not! Last time we met him at the pub, he poured his whole beer on me!”

“I’m sure it was an accident,” Elias sooths, putting his hand on Jon’s lower back to guide him into the lift. He pauses. “Dearest, have you forgotten something?”

Jon is wearing Elias’ favorite sweater, all slim fitted burgundy cashmere, and a pair of nice trousers, which is all well and good, Jon is gorgeous in anything he wears, but, of course, human-types generally must wear coats when deciding to brave February in London. Jon squints as he considers if he’s forgotten anything. Elias sighs fondly. For all that this being sharing an elevator car with him is a bit of effort away from omnipotence, he’s still barely got the hang of pretending to be human. Jon frowns in thought and flicks the eye charm hanging by his ear absently, sending it swinging and glinting in the dull florescent light of the elevator car.

“Your coat, angel, people tend to wear those in the snow.” Elias reminds, and Jon wrinkles his nose in annoyance.

“I know that,” he snaps. “I just left it in the office because I wasn’t sure if you even wanted to have lunch with me.” God, but Elias loves this manipulative, spiteful man.

“Of course, darling, my mistake.”

The lift lets them off in the lobby and Jon heads towards the archives, a little sullen. 

The assistants are gathered around the break room table, chatting amiably over their lunches as Jon storms in. Elias strolls behind him, casual. He smiles blandly at the assistants. 

“Double boss!” crows Tim. “What brings you down to our dungeon today?”

“Jon forgot his coat, didn’t he?” Elias replies, leant against the doorframe to Jon’s office. The man in question makes an indignant sound. 

“I did not forget! I am all-seeing!” Jon says plaintively, searching for his coat, which is hanging on the hook next to the door. For all that he’s militantly organized with his archives, his workspace is quite reflective of his mind, overstuffed with knowledge and fluttering from one thing to the next, a flock of agitated birds. Elias sometimes is grateful he was never Archivist, Jon has been scatter-brained since before they met, and often got distracted mid-thought as the Eye fed him more information and he chased trains of thought and interesting threads. He’s gotten better since he rejoined society, but he still does get trapped in his own head from time to time. Elias checks his watch and gathers Jon’s outer wear from the hook.

“I’ve found your coat, come along, Jon, we’ll be late.” Jon gives him an annoyed look but graciously to allows Elias to wrap him up in the scarf and coat. 

The assistants are watching them, of course. Though Sasha and Martin are at least pretending to be occupied with their lunches and phones, Tim is blatantly watching them, a slight smile on his face. Elias skims the surface of his thoughts, and is surprised to realize that he’s not jealous, but holds some concern and affection for Jon, who he worries is being abused by Elias.

He makes eye contact with Tim, even as he turns Jon bodily to lead him from the office. “What would you do without me,” he asks Jon pleasantly. Jon turns a glare upon him that forcibly reminds him that this being has disintegrated people with the power of his mind.

They head to one of their favorite cafes, a quaint little place tucked down a side street that has an upper floor library and sweet window boxes perpetually blooming with something green. Jon loves the place, and Elias refuses to be anything but an indulgent partner. 

They discuss business. They’ve been planning out their upcoming Ritual for decades now, and they’re so close, maybe five years out. That’s really nothing in the grand scheme of things.

“That only leaves the issue of our Ms. Prentiss,” 

“I’m not letting her anywhere near my archive, are you daft?”

“You still haven’t been marked by the Corruption, Angel.”

“I’m not very partial to the crawling things, _sweetheart_. I’d rather you just give John a call. He’s not busy is he?”

“Mm, I suppose I can look into it… How else are you going to get your assistants to rely on you if not through mortal peril?” this last is said in as much of a whine as Elias ever allows himself, which is neigh indiscernible from any other tone, just that Jon can taste the petulance on his breath. 

“I am perfectly capable of making lasting relationships with human types,” Jon says huffily. The couple at the neighboring table are giving them furtive looks. “Look at Gertrude, she loved me so much she tried to kill you to avenge my death! And I wasn’t even trying to be her friend.” He’s smugly satisfied with himself and the other table is packing up as quietly as possible. Elias points his fork at his fiancé.

“That’s not as good an argument as you think; she only tried to kill me because you made it seem like there was some big mystery to unravel.”

“I thought she deserved one last hurrah! How was I supposed to know that she’d be so trigger happy?” There is a short pause as Elias stares across the table at the man who bought Gertrude Robinson her first gun. Jon clicks his bright red nails against the table and affects an innocent expression. Elias laughs incredulously. 

“I swear I fall in love with you more and more each day,” He declares grandly.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> CWs  
> References to period-typical homophobia (60s-), character death (canon and aforementioned), Jon's inhumanity, alcohol use, Tim's headspace re: stranger/danny trauma  
> Food mentions, corruption mentions, mild cursing.
> 
> Fam, this is a long one for me!  
> I barely remember what happens, but like, there's some of that tastey tastie Plot and some Graphic Depictions of Love.  
> Tim has somehow had his drive for answers lowered and is even more suspicious and confused. Wonder how Martin found that letter if Jon had already left a dumb note to implicate himself. Hmm.  
> Anyway, I love office politics. The library where I work has three different Jameses and Jims a few Johns, a few Joes, etc. as well as a myriad of Sarahs and the like. My favorite thing is having to be like 'who? nice Jim? bald Jim or funny Jim' mm, good shit.  
> I will not allow our friend of the family, Jane Prentiss, I'm sure you've heard of her, into the archives. I am MORALLY OPPOSED to the corruption. Like. not on your life will the tag 'canon-typical worms' come up in one of my fics. I am a son of the Vast. corruption avis dni. (i kid. mostly.)  
> OH also! Tim's dog Othello is a 7 y/o german shepard mix who he had to adopt from Danny because _for some reason_ , danny couldn't take care of him anymore. He's a good boy.
> 
> As always, i exist on social media. arguably, i exist no where else. You can find my ephemeral form @mattitionjames


	11. update!

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> this isn't a chapter, sorry lol

Hello!! 

Sorry for the deception, as they say. I thought I'd post a quick update--I hate this fic now! I still like the idea a lot, but I'm not executing it well, and it honestly feels like a collection of unrelated ficlets when I want to be a _story_.

What's probably going to happen is that I'll re-write the whole thing and just clean it up over all. I might try and condense it, because it just feels really rambly as it goes further; we'll see how the chips fall. 

Anyway, thanks for popping in lol! I'm still posting stuff, so I'll be Around :)

l8r  
Ma'at :)


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